True Magic
by A Petal on the Rose
Summary: Belle returns to the Dark Castle determined to save the Enchanted Forest from the Dark Curse. If she cannot stop Rumplestiltskin's hand, can she touch his heart? "A curse is only as dark as the heart of the one who makes it."
1. The Deal is Struck

The Deal is Struck-Prologue

"Fancy meeting you here, dearie," chirped Rumplestiltskin from his perch upon the stone ledge of the balcony. He reclined there—nearly one hundred feet above the forest treetops—as casually as if he reclined on a chaise lounge. Regina threw her shoulders back to mask her surprise. Even when expected, the monster never failed to catch her off guard.

"I take it you got my message," she replied, her voice dripping with the practiced seductive saccharine she employed in all her negotiations. Her voice had a magic of its own, transitioning easily from sultry, to authoritative, to dark brutality. Men never failed to crumple under its power. Unfortunately, Rumplestiltskin was no man.

"Indeed I did," he answered with his typical sing-song tones. Whereas her voice served as an appeal to the lustful urges of men, his mocked all suppositions of pride and power. "I would have come sooner, but this is my busiest season. All the young princelets and princesslets are coming of age and finding _true love_"—he could never utter those two words in a civil tongue he so detested the idea—"And that makes for a lot of desperate times."

Regina smiled and batted her long eyelashes. "And, you are the master of desperate measures."

He swung his legs off the ledge and onto the balcony dipping into an over-exaggerated bow. "At your service," he sang. His voice suddenly dropped to a low and murderous tone as he rose slowly, "So, whatever reason you've called me away from my business had better be worth my time."

He held his hands behind his back and glared down the ridge of his nose at her as he stepped into her sitting room. Even in her world of grays and blacks, his gold skin and warm brown leather overcoat appeared dark and ominous.

"I've asked you here to give you the one thing I know you've wanted from me all these years." Holding two silver goblets of wine she sauntered over to him and offered him one, which he refused. A pity, it was excellent wine. Then again, trust was not numbered amongst Rumplestiltskin's vices.

"And what's that?" he asked. He seated himself on her gray settee crossing his legs at the knee.

"My congratulations," she paused to register the faintest hint of surprise on his face. "On being the most powerful sorcerer in all of the Enchanted Forest."

His wickedly manic sneer was enough evidence that he was pleased. "You've finally come to my way of seeing things, eh?"

Regina opened her eyes wide, her full lips forming a girlish pout. "Oh, yes. You've beaten me at every turn. I find I am quite outmatched—for now," she added erasing all pretense from her feminine features.

"For always, _dearie_," he muttered savagely through his clenched teeth.

Regina gave a little shrug and sipped her wine. "Perhaps," she admitted.

Rumplestiltskin could do very little to unsettle her these days. She was accustomed to all his faces: his seething murderous fury, the deathly quiet of his sinister ire, and his manic condescending mockery. While his peculiar charm might wither other enemies, she stood firm. Even so, she could not best him. As the Dark One, he was too powerful. There was some truth in what she had conceded.

"You didn't summon me to hear me gloat. Come, what have you? What leaneth so heavily upon the royal brow?" He rolled his tongue to accentuate her status as royalty, a status she had kept, but never earned.

"I want to make a deal, naturally." She patted the corners of her mouth with a small white napkin. His patronizing attitude dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

"Oh, and what did you have in mind?"

"A simple trade, really. The rule of this world for the next."

Rumplestiltskin threw his head back and laughed. "Quite simple, yes." He stood and walked around her, speaking softly into her ear, "And, you can manage such a delicate exchange? You think you can maintain your position as queen without my help? Because, I should think if you could, one little princess running around in the woods would hardly pose a threat."

His low chuckle rang in her ears like an arrow striking the center of the target. "How is dear Snow?" he whispered.

"You don't think I can do it?"

"No!" he cried as his amusement broke free into a high-pitched squeal of laughter. He grew suddenly calm. "No," he repeated solemnly.

She defiantly placed her hands on her hips, "Your presence in this world is the only reason I have not already succeeded."

The little imp placed a hand over his heart, he sank back onto the settee, and thrashed about as if convulsing. He paused, his feet in midair, glanced her way and asked, "Am I still me? Has the curse been broken?" He threw his gold-flecked hands with their blacked nails in front of his face, "Ah, well, another time, maybe." He laughed again and did not stop.

Regina shouted over his laughter, knowing he was listening to her every word. "It could be done. My powers in this world are surpassed only by yours. Were you to find your happily ever after —or unhappily I don't care which—elsewhere, I could seize this world and bring it to its knees."

"And, what makes you think I would ever, _ever_, allow the affairs of this world to carry on without my," he paused for effect, "intervention?"

_At last_, she thought. "There are many worlds to conquer, Rumple. And, many worlds in need of a master who would rule with an iron hand. Some with magic…some _without_."

He grew very still and sat upright on the couch. His hands clasped in front of his face and his elbows rested on his knees. "I am well aware, Regina. And, all of them are _useless_," he spat the word.

She sighed and turned her back on him, casually fiddling with some trinket on her vanity table, "I don't know. Have you explored them all? There is magic which we do not possess in our world. Magic that can turn back the sands of time. Magic that can reunite the dead with the living."

The tension in the room began to crackle with electricity like the air before a summer storm. Regina had struck the tender chord—the only chord left in his black heart. Now, she must tread cautiously or risk invoking the Dark One's wrath. Few alluded to the mysterious disappearance, and presumed death, of Rumplestiltskin's son and lived to boast of their recklessness.

Her meaning fully comprehended, she sliced the silence in two. She redirected, "Why be the master of one world, when you can dominate them all—save one?"

"You'd need a portal."

"Yes," she conceded with a smirk.

"The hatter?"

"I have plans to accompany Jefferson on an excursion to Wonderland."

"And, I take it, he won't be coming back?"

Regina shook her head with a wicked grin. "He'll have to make other arrangements for his return trip."

"I see. Why not keep the portal for yourself? Why pass it on to me?"

Regina took a few powerful steps towards the sofa. "Let's just say I'm invested in the people of _this_ world."

"And, what would you want in return for Jefferson's wee magic hat?"

"Have you finished it?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows, pretending to be oblivious. "Finished what, dearie?"

She had no qualms naming it aloud, "The Dark Curse. The one you used to swear would end the happiness of everyone." The time had come when Regina was willing to sacrifice her vengeance against Rumplestiltskin if it afforded her the massive victory she so desperately coveted over Snow White and all her followers.

He grimaced, "Not yet."

"Those are my terms: the hat for the curse. This world for the next."

Rumplestiltskin thought about it for only the briefest of moments before growling, "Deal."

Regina smiled in triumph. She sauntered back to her vanity table to fetch a pen. As she signed the contract Rumplestiltskin had conjured, she mentioned casually, "There's one particular concerning the hat which may interest you."

His over-large eyes narrowed to mere slits. "What's that?" he asked with a sharp edge in his voice.

"The same number who travels through the portal must return. I suggest you find a traveling companion. Someone you won't mind leaving behind should you wish to bring back a souvenir."

She heard him exhale sharply through his nose. "I find companions are in short supply."

"Then bargain for one. It wouldn't be the first time you traded in human life. Isn't that little Cinder-girl due soon?"

He nodded, "Yes, but I have no interest in strapping a squalling infant to my back."

Regina stuck out a hip and gave it some thought. She tapped her chin once before saying, "There's a little village right on the edge of ogre territory that's been under siege for weeks. I could refer your services to them. Perhaps you could choose a traveling companion from their party." For once, the spark in his eyes did not make her cringe.

*****Rumplestiltskin*****

It suited Rumplestiltskin to keep his presence hidden for a time. Nothing satisfied the remaining fragment of his soul more than to delay salvation until the last possible moment. He had arrived in the small armory no less than half an hour ago. However, he had not made his attendance known, taking great delight in the frenetic council between Lord Maurice and his military toadies. He watched in amusement as sweat and tears mingled on Maurice's brow before dropping off the end of his nose onto the large map spread out across the table.

Regina was right; he needed another person to travel through Jefferson's portal. Although Baelfire had likely been dead for over a century, Rumplestiltskin would gladly rend the boundaries of the afterlife to tatters to retrieve his son. If need be, he would douse the fires of the netherworld and set the heavens ablaze. Still, in order to be reunited with his son and return to a land where magic would restore his powers and immortality, he would need a body to leave behind.

Aside from needing someone to take Baelfire's place, he would require a servant in the land without magic. Without his magical abilities, even the most basic chores could take up valuable time. He would have none to spare for such humble occupations while he searched, first for the magic that could reunite the living with the dead, then for a gateway to the land the boy had traveled to, and finally for the soul of the boy himself. The choice must be made before the curse was completed. Once Regina had it in her possession, the time would not be long until its execution. He wanted to be nowhere near the Enchanted Forest when that torment was unleashed.

Rumplestiltskin scanned the room searching for the perfect person to enlist into service. He needed someone who was easily commanded and overpowered but would serve him well. The journey into the unknown promised unforeseen challenges; therefore, he must choose someone strong in both body and spirit. There was no telling how long it would take to complete his quest. It was likely that he would be forced to suffer the presence of this person for years, even decades. So, he felt it necessary to select someone whom he could fairly tolerate without turning them into a roast duckling.

He considered the candidates within the room. Lord Maurice was out of the question. Rumplestiltskin could not spend more than five minutes with a warmongering dolt who crumpled under the slightest adversity. Some of the advisors seemed fairly competent and more than placating; however, their age counted against them. Long past their prime, they could not endure the unexplored magical wilderness. For a moment, he considered the young knight, Gaston. Despite his apparent bravery, adventurous spirit, and physical health, Rumplestiltskin quickly dismissed him for the proud look in his eye. Gaston was looking to play the hero for the glory of his own name. The little champion would no doubt take the first opportunity to overthrow his master. Of course, he would not succeed; but, then Rumplestiltskin would be compelled to destroy the lad and select someone else to accompany him.

A flash of gold caught his eye. A young woman, dressed in a shade of yellow the color of a coin in the afternoon sun, entered the room and rushed to Maurice's side. Her brow was furrowed, and she clutched a book, _The Anatomy of Magical Beasts_, to her chest_._ The book spoke of her intelligence, for not many young women found pleasure in such prodigious research. The young girl opened the book and pointed to a page.

"If we positioned our archers on top of the ridge they could safely aim for the eyes of the ogres, Papa."

"They're blind, Belle! Ogres hunt by sound and smell." Maurice raised his voice in despair, "What good will it do to aim for sightless eyes?"

"Just listen to me! It's their only weakness—we could defeat the ogres without any more of our men dying out there!"

Her voice was strong and sure, but Rumplestiltskin watched as Maurice took her by the elbow and gently guided her away from the conference with a pained expression on his face. With some effort, Rumplestiltskin stifled his laughter. The girl chaffed under the guiding paternal touch of her father. Her mouth was set in a grim line. This beauty was no fool, despite being the daughter of one. The men of course, saw her only as the glittering jewel of the local aristocracy. They ignored her completely on this serious matter. A shame, she could have saved the entire village.

Belle, as the girl was called, refusing to be shut out, clapped the book shut and edged her way back towards the table. The news arrived. Another nearby village, Avonlea, had fallen. Maurice sank into his chair overcome with grief wailing, "Ogres are not men!"

Rumplestiltskin nearly revealed his presence in the room with a peal of laughter. Of course ogres were not men! He pitied the village that was led by such a brainless and inarticulate man. With what moving speech did he inspire his troops to provoke the ogres into battle? How had he managed to propel his people into the third Ogre War? The creatures were violent, blind, brutes, but not prone to wage battle. If left to themselves, they kept to the solitude of their swamps and hunting grounds.

_All war is born of fools_, he thought to himself. _And the wise profit from the carnage._

Maurice continued on, lamenting about the delayed arrival of the hoped for help. The aging lord was weak and had begun to crumple. No army stands for long once its leader has fallen. Belle rushed to her father's side, refusing to give in to hopelessness, "He could be on his way right now, Papa!"

Rumplestiltskin made his decision. He would have the girl. She was bright, capable, and strong spirited. Despite being belittled and ignored, she did not sulk, but attempted to fortify others. She was not self-seeking nor was her pride easily injured. These were qualities of which he could easily take advantage.

He fired a simple knocking spell at the door and drew the attention of the small group. Rumplestiltskin slipped from his vantage point in the corner and took a seat in the lord's throne-like chair.

"Well, that was a bit of a letdown," he called. They were so easily fooled.

He quickly offered his services and named his price. He relished the outrage which erupted across their faces. Oh yes, the villain had come to steal their precious gem. The gallant peacock of a knight, Gaston, flourished his sword and threw a protective arm over Belle, shielding her from the monster's gaze.

"It's her or no deal," he stated. Rumplestiltskin smiled to himself as he headed towards the door. Young Belle looked like a prisoner testing the strength of her iron chains. Chivalry needled the girl.

It was no surprise when she called out, "No, wait!" He turned to find her blue eyes were fixed on his as she vowed, "I will go with him."

He turned on his heels. Gaston, a mere yapping dog, howled, "I forbid it!"

Maurice bellowed, "No!"

Belle made herself heard, probably for the first time. She turned to her father and supercilious fiancé and said, "No one decides my fate but me."

"It's forever, dearie," Rumplestiltskin cautioned.

"My family, my friends—they will all live?" she asked, confirming the terms.

"You have my word," he promised.

"Then you have mine. I will go with you…forever."

As she said goodbye to her father, no one noticed the sudden quiet rising from the battlefield. With a nod of his head, he had cleared the territory of the ogre army, transforming their ranks into beetles. "Congratulations on your little war," he scoffed.

Belle seemed relieved, as if she had escaped a fate more appalling than the one she had just accepted. How unfortunate she had found her freedom by indenturing herself to him for all eternity. Rumplestiltskin vaguely hoped that the afterlife into which he tossed her was at least halfway pleasant. What a pity to remove her from this world where she could have done much good if given the opportunity.

He placed a hand on the small of her back, escorting her in the fashion of a gentleman to which she was accustomed. Whereas before she had assessed him with some modicum of objectivity, she now rankled at the polite offer of his arm. Rumplestiltskin smiled at the silent rebuff. He handled no one with kid gloves. It gave him satisfaction to know Belle would neither expect nor appreciate such conduct from him. They would get on well without having to keep up the pretense of civility.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for choosing to read _True Magic_! I hope you enjoy it! Please, feel free to post your comments and reviews. Even though the story is "complete" I would love to hear your thoughts.**

**Thank you to all the Oncers who voted and helped _True Magic _win "Best Multi-Chapter Fanfiction" in the 2013 Once Upon a Fan Awards! **


	2. Of Dwarves and Dreams

Four days of hard road separated Belle from the tall spires and gray stone bricks of the Dark Castle. Four days of swollen ankles, sore feet, aching hips, and peat moss beds. Four days of desperate thirst, quenched only when she happened to wander upon a stream. Four days of gnawing hunger satisfied sparingly with a few handfuls of the berries she could name. She no longer bothered to pick the leaves and small twigs from her hair when she arose from her makeshift forest shelters.

Belle followed the road, but kept off it concealing herself in the tree line. Rumplestiltskin had raged for hours about her supposed allegiance with the evil Queen Regina. Belle was not political and cared little for the favor of royalty, especially conniving manipulative wretches like Regina. What sort of devious mind would twist a kiss into a betrayal? Belle knew the queen's interest in the love life of a simple country aristocrat's daughter had little to do with Belle herself. She had no interest in being discovered—by the queen or otherwise.

One day's journey was sufficient to burn away her anger; however, Belle was certain she could walk the earth for the rest of her natural life and never distance herself from the heaviness in her heart. He had told her to go, refusing to allow even the slightest emotion to register on his face, despite the desperate twitching she had noticed in his jaw. And, go she had, without supplies, monetary or domestic, to ease her flight. Although she had marched down the castle path leaving nothing but the smoke and ashes of a shattered heart in her wake, she had watered her trail with tears once the sun had set.

The road between her village and the Dark Castle, which had taken mere seconds by magic, was a daunting task on foot. She passed a village and dared to ask the length of the journey to the foothills of the Eastern Mountains, her home. A ruddy-faced tinker had scratched his bulbous nose and answered,

"A week's journey aback a good strong horse, at least."

"And on foot?" she'd asked, barely hoping for good news. She knew more ground was covered by the quick legs of a horse, than the tired, bloodied stumps she once called feet.

He shook his head, "I wouldn't recommend it. Hard roads those. Hard country filled with hard people."

Rumplestiltskin had chosen the location of his estate for its seclusion and isolation from the world-a world Belle had always wanted to explore. Her life had been sheltered, and she toured little of the country, save through her books. As a child she had dreamed of the kind of freedom she now possessed. She had longed to travel, free of the watchful eyes of her father and servants. To wander the great unknown and meet whatever adventure crossed her path. When she had dreamed of trekking through the countryside, she never imagined it would be under such circumstances.

At night, she withdrew deeper into the woods to seek rest and shelter. Belle didn't know if cutthroats and highwaymen preferred to camp in the woods or near the road. However, she camped in the woods, certain that interested parties would assume that she would stay on the road. In lieu of proper bedding, she covered herself with mosses and leaves. Although summer was fast approaching and she was quite warm, she shivered at the crack of every branch, hoot of every owl, and rustle of every leaf. She was a girl free to decide her own fate, yet her fear held her fast in slavery.

"Never imagined I would miss sleeping in a dungeon," she grumbled. She recalled how she used to stay up as late as possible in the great room at the Dark Castle, if only to avoid returning to the cold, damp, stone walls of what Rumplestiltskin had gleefully referred to as her "room." Now, she would almost be glad to hear the clang of the bolt fastening behind her if it meant she was sheltered by four walls and a roof.

A full moon illuminated the forest with silver beams on the second night of her journey. She camped at the crest of a gentle hill which overlooked a valley. As she made a bed out of pine needles, she heard the howls, sweet and longing, of a pack of wolves baying at the moon. They raced by her, nearly a dozen of them, as large as foals and twice as fierce. Their fur was all different shades of gray, black, brown, and the occasional wisp of gold. They were wild and running and free. No snapping twig jolted them from slumber. If she could have sprouted whiskers and a tail, she would have joined them.

She reached the dwarf mines, where enchanted diamonds were scraped out of the rock and crushed into fairy dust, by mid-afternoon on the fourth day. Dwarves were not known for their capacity to love; however, Belle found they were more compassionate, especially toward wandering maids, than most people gave them credit for. She settled to rest in the shade of a struggling willow tree. She gingerly removed her shoes to feel the soft springy grass, certain she could not put them back on again. A short little man with tufts of white hair sticking out of his ears spotted her from across the road. Leaning heavily on a cane, he hobbled towards her.

"Miss? Are you quite well?" he asked hesitatingly.

She shook her head. Her mother had always criticized her for failing to conceal her emotions.

The dwarf sat with some difficulty on the grass beside her. There was silence for a few minutes, until he piqued, "I'm thoughtful, by the way."

Belle furrowed her brow and gave him a curious look. "Oh, that's very nice. I try to be too."

"Oh, no, miss. I mean, my name. I'm Thoughtful."

"Right," she smiled. "I'm Belle."

"Belle, yes, I can see that. A beauty," he answered very matter-of-factly. "What's troubling you, Miss Belle?"

"I'm just tired. I've been on the road several days."

"A difficult journey, I take it?"

"Very."

Thoughtful pointed to a rustic, two-story building just across the road with his cane. The weather-worn logs were painted brown. "There's the inn just over there. You should stop and stay for a day or two. The roads ahead are rough, and you look as if your strength is just about wasted."

Belle shook her head, "I've no money."

The elderly dwarf looked this way and that, "Well, you're in luck. As I am the innkeeper, I can offer you a room and board at no charge."

"I couldn't possibly—"

The little man waved his hand and said, "I tell you what. Rest tonight and recover yourself. Then, tomorrow at dinner, come down and sit in the bar."

"Why would you want me to do that?" she asked doubtfully.

"This is dwarf country. Our supply of pretty young ladies is rather…short. I guarantee the word will get out and my business will triple for two weeks after you've gone!" He gave a merry little laugh. "We dwarves admire all sparkling beauties—not just diamonds."

Too weak, tired, and hungry to refuse, she allowed him to guide her towards the inn. He urged her to take a room for the evening and rest and regain her strength. Thoughtful led Belle up a narrow staircase. She carried her mud-stained heels in one hand and walked along the floorboards in her bare feet. The dwarf opened the room with a key, which he then handed to her and said, "If you'll give me just a moment, I'll send Ziva up to make you a nice hot bath. She'll, ah, take your things and have them laundered as well." He eyed her dirty hem with a calculating eye.

"Thank you, again," Belle smiled. She stepped into the room and took in her surroundings. The room was rough and sparsely furnished. A small bed with a straw mattress was pushed against one wall. A rickety wooden chair, flimsy writing desk, and deeply scratched bedside table were all the furniture within. Thoughtful was right. Judging by the furnishings, not many women passed through this part of the kingdom. Still, it was warmer than a dungeon and more comfortable than a blanket of pine needles.

A knock came from the door. Ziva, the only woman she had seen all day, was dark and rough. Belle could see she had once been pretty, but age and hard living had settled into deep set lines around her mouth and forehead. Her coarse black curls were streaked with gray. Her mouth was thin and grim. She eyed Belle with suspicion and disdain, for a reason Belle could not imagine. With only the most basic niceties she offered Belle clean towels and a coarse linen nightgown—one of her own no doubt—to wear while her clothes were being cleaned. She prepared a hot bath and promised to bring up a plate of food within the hour. Belle thanked her. On her way out, Ziva shut the door forcefully.

Having just spent a few hours off her feet, Belle found it was now excruciating to walk. The soft skin on her heels was raw. She flinched when she caught a glimpse of two very large blisters on the bottoms of her feet. Wincing with the pain, she limped over to the steaming bath and gingerly set one foot into the water, then the other, before sinking down into its depths. Ziva had poured kettle after kettle of boiling water into the tub. No wonder her expression was so dour: Her work was long and thankless. Belle imagined what it might be like if hot water could be pumped directly into the tub with a flick of the wrist.

The heat and humidity soaked into her skin. The chill of the forest seeped out, and she sighed deeply. The more her muscles relaxed in the warm water, the more she felt the urge to weep from exhaustion.

_No, not just fatigue,_ she thought to herself. If only heartache could be leached from her body with a warm bath. She dunked her head under the water, silencing the cacophony within her soul for as long as she could hold her breath.

Once the water had begun to cool, Belle stepped out, dried off with a towel, and put on the nightgown. Having no comb, she raked through her hair with her fingers, removing the knots and tangles as best she could. Opening the door just a crack, she found that Ziva had already left a plate of bread, cheese, fruit, and a chicken leg just outside. Certain she would remain unseen, she pulled the tray in quickly. Belle had eaten only a few mouthfuls before she could no longer keep her eyes open. She slipped under the thin covers, which provided more warmth from the cold than she'd had in days, and quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

She awoke disoriented. The sun was higher than when she'd laid down just an hour or two after lunchtime. Was it possible? Had she slept the entire night and most of the morning? She spied her simple blue dress hanging over the back of the little wooden chair, the tray of food removed and replaced with another, which had already gone cold. Her silver satin shoes had been replaced with a dainty pair of ladies' walking boots. The soft leather felt like rose petals against her skin. Her dress was clean, pressed, and the hem had been mended to hide the torn edges. Her dress would hang a little higher now, but at least it was modest and presentable. The funny little innkeeper lived up to his name.

Physically, Belle felt much better. Perhaps the waters here were enchanted. She imagined those afflicted with an assortment of ailments traveling to this small forgotten village and being healed by a simple hot soak. It was a glorious sort of magic. Of course, she laughed, she knew that the real magic was in the kindness of one who was a total stranger. It was a healing balm, though not a cure, for her broken heart. Belle quickly slipped the dress and boots on, surprised at the regeneration of her feet, and hurried down the stairs with her now empty tray.

The moment her boot touched the landing at the bottom of the stairs every balding, capped, and frizzled dwarf head turned to look in her direction. It couldn't be later than noon, yet the bar was packed. Belle smiled and supposed word traveled faster than even Thoughtful had projected. How many funny little men had been watching as he had guided her towards his modest establishment? Enough, apparently, to pack several tables full of off-duty miners.

Belle approached the counter where Thoughtful was drying glasses with a clean cloth. She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, "I cannot thank you enough for your generosity."

"Ah! Miss Belle!" he warmly greeted as he set down his cloth and shook her hand. "I'm so very glad to see you up and on your feet again."

"I'm glad to be on my feet again. I thought perhaps I might never take another step."

"Well, so did we for a time. Ziva went up to your room no less than three times yesterday. You were dead to the world, miss. We thought perhaps you had fallen under some sort of a sleeping curse."

"No, nothing so bad as that."

"Thank goodness." He peered at her over his wire-rimmed spectacles. "No, we knew you were only resting. Do you often talk in your sleep, miss?"

"Talk in my sleep?" Belle asked, seating herself on the closest stool.

"Yes, Ziva overheard you."

Belle shook her head, "No, I don't think so. Did I say anything…interesting?"

Thoughtful placed both hands on the counter and leaned in close. "A name, miss. One which I don't care to repeat."

"Oh," Belle answered, lowering her eyes to the table.

"Now, I know it's none of my business, and I can tell you're in a bad way. A young lady traveling through hard country alone with nothing but the clothes on her back and all. But, you're not planning to go asking help from the likes of _him_, now are you? His is as murky a heart as there ever was. Turning good folks into snails just to feel the squish of 'em beneath his boot."

Belle blanched at the idea. Before her father had called to Rumplestiltskin for help she'd heard many accounts of his cunning and of his violent temper, but not one of such malice. She could not answer a word.

"I can see that's what you were thinking, miss. I hate to repeat such a dreadful story, but if it keeps you away from a villain like that, then it's best you hear it before you go and live it."

"He can't be as bad as all that, can he?" Belle asked innocently as she traced little circles on the bar counter. "I mean, there's a little good in everybody. You say his heart is murky, but that means there's still some light shining through the darkness. I heard he saved more than one village from destruction during the Ogre Wars."

"Oh sure, but at what a price! And, I don't mean gold, miss." Thoughtful looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. "Women."

"Women?" Belle asked incredulously.

Thoughtful nodded, "I heard he took one poor girl not too long ago from her family, friends, and betrothed in exchange for the safety of the village. Never heard from again. Her fiancé went to go find her, never returned. Now miss, you don't want to go getting involved with that sort. If you need help, I'll gladly offer it to you. Why, you can work here in the inn and room with Ziva." He gestured towards Ziva who was drying the breakfast dishes. She shot Belle a sour glance. "It's not much, but it's fairer than any deal he'll offer."

Belle looked at the gentle worry lines on Thoughtful's face. She smiled and patted his hand, "I'll think about it."

"You do that, Miss Belle." He handed her a tall pewter mug filled with cider.

Left alone with her thoughts, Belle sat staring into her mug for hours which felt like minutes. The tables filled and emptied and filled again before Belle considered fully all that she had left behind when she took Rumplestiltskin's invitation to leave the Dark Castle. What had happened to Gaston? She'd never seen him at the castle. The road to the Dark Castle was full of danger. Had he come to rescue her and fallen into trouble along the way?

She thought of Rumplestiltskin. His soul was troubled, but she could see some small spark within him wanted to be free. Despite his viciousness, she would always believe it. Their kiss would have had no power otherwise. True love was impossible for someone incapable of love, right?

What did it mean to love someone anyway? She knew how it felt to be in love, but even now, she wasn't certain what it meant to truly love another person. Belle supposed that once you found true love you learned as you went along. Her words came back to her, "I believe love is layered—a mystery to be uncovered." Now she knew why his eyes shined as she spoke those words. The man, for she refused to deny his humanity, was nothing if not layers and mystery. He resisted letting her into his life and his heart. His was certain to be a long and lonely existence, one of his own making.

Unfortunately, that meant hers would be as well. They'd shared True Love's Kiss. What could undo that bond? Belle had always believed it transcended time, space, and even death. Rumplestiltskin was her True Love for all eternity. She had no doubt that she could eventually marry and find some happiness, but it would always be a shadow—a half life—of what should have been.

In the midst of these thoughts a nearby conversation stirred her from her reverie. A group of dwarves, who had just finished their shift in the mines, were laughing and relaxing over large pints of frothy ale. She envied their easy laughter, save one. One dwarf among them all, clothed in a tunic the color of parchment and a brown woolen cap, stood out from his brothers. He was as lovesick as she. Although he recognized the symptoms, he had failed to obtain the diagnosis. A bossy know-it-all dwarf dismissed him saying it was all in his head.

Belle interjected, "It's not in his head. It's in his heart." To the lovelorn dwarf she said, "You're in love."

"Well, that's impossible. We're dwarves, we can't fall in love," corrected the bossy dwarf.

"Trust me, I know love, and you're in it," Belle assured. She spoke chiefly to the dwarf with the dreamy look in his eye. The other seemed a nice enough fellow, but this one was a kindred spirit.

"What's it like?" the dreamy dwarf asked.

She smiled into her cup, remembering the best moments she had shared with Rumplestiltskin. "It's the most wonderful and amazing thing in the world. Love is hope. It fuels our dreams." She paused, considering her situation and added, "And, if you're in it, you need to enjoy it. Because, love doesn't always last forever."

"But, if love's so great, then why do I feel so bad right now?"

"You need to be with the person you love." It was as true for Belle now as it always would be.

"Yeah, but how do I know she feels the same way?" The dreamy dwarf made a rather grumpy speech about his misadventures with his unnamed sweetheart.

Belle laughed at his simple naiveté. If only all lovers' squabbles were as easy to solve as this one. Belle offered a little clarity. "She was inviting you to go be with her."

"You think so?" he asked hopefully.

"I've had my heart broken enough to know when somebody's reaching out."

Unfortunately, she also knew when someone refused to reach out at all. But, this dwarf's problems were not hers. Perhaps he could find the happiness that had so quickly eluded her.

She encouraged him, "Now go! Find your love. Find your hope. Find your dreams."

_And may it bring you all the happiness in the world_, she wished silently.

The dreamy dwarf quickly exited the bar, much to the surprise of his fellow workers. Belle glanced at her mug, which had been filled several times in the course of the day. Thoughtful was right to serve her cider. Had she been offered the chance to drown her sorrows in ale, she might have gotten very drunk indeed.

The dark of night pressed against the windows. The torches had been lit. Belle decided she had sufficiently fulfilled her end of the bargain for one night. Thoughtful was too busy at the bar with the extra business to bid her more than a quick, "Good night" when she headed up the stairs. Apparently, he was as shrewd as he was considerate. Word had traveled about the lovely lonely heart weeping into her mug. Business was booming. Her seat was immediately occupied.

Belle lay on the thin mattress, which was far less comfortable than it had been last night when she was fatigued from the journey. Sleep eluded her. The images which whirled about in her head were lovely and grave, tender and fierce, joyous and painful. Suddenly, Belle was not certain she wanted to return to her father's house where no doubt she would be sequestered and fully debriefed on every detail of her experience. The subject was too tender. Her heart was confused and fully enmeshed in the fate of the Dark One.

When her father ascertained that she had fallen in love with such a man, he was certain to lock her up until her corrupted mind had been cleansed. Belle loved her father, but he was not a man of mercy or grace. He ran towards violence, war, and judgment. He was as blind as any ogre. Without a thought, he would condemn Rumplestiltskin for his cunning, reputation, and caustic personality, rather than by his actions. Rumplestiltskin had kept his bargain; the village was safe.

Theirs was not the only cause to which he had been sympathetic—even for a price. But, was it fair to demand payment? Should not help be offered freely if it can be given at all? On the other hand, nobody faults a physician for requesting compensation. These were not questions she was ready to answer. Belle did not look forward to starting any journey that would end with her father's inquisition. Perhaps, she thought as sleep began to take hold, she would accept Thoughtful's proposition. She savored the idea of disappearing into the world, for however brief a time, making a life for herself on her own terms.

_No one decides my fate but me_, she thought.

Although she did not remember falling asleep, the strange dream which she'd had since leaving the Dark Castle returned. It always started the same way. Belle watched Rumplestiltskin spinning at the wheel, endlessly turning straw into gold with the same vacant, hopeless expression. Behind him the world faded from glory into dust and was remade, only to crumble again. She wept for his loneliness.

This time, however, the dream ended differently. A bright light filled her vision and she heard a familiar voice which she could not name. She saw a woman's face full of gentle, easy grace. Her hair was white like the moon, and her eyes were as pale as cornflowers. The lady smiled at her.

Belle asked, "Mother?"

The White Lady continued to smile but answered, "No. Belle, you must return to the house of Rumplestiltskin."

Belle shook her head adamantly, "He made his choice."

"A choice you know he regrets."

"He doesn't want me. He only wants power."

"You must show him what true power is. He has spent many long years trapped in the bondage of fear. Belle, you must return to him. Set him free."

"He doesn't love me."

"He does," the lady nodded solemnly.

"He can't. He isn't capable of it," Belle lied.

The White Lady looked down sadly, "He is, Belle. Only, he has forgotten what it means to love someone. You can teach him. You're the only one who can. The only one he will hear."

"He won't listen to me. I tried."

"If he will not hear your words, then you must speak without them."

"How?"

"Love is patient. Love is kind. Love seeks not its own, and it keeps no record of wrongs. It is powerful enough to free anyone from the darkest curse and protects from the greatest evil. Love always hopes and love never fails. You must find a way to show him."

"Why does this task fall to me?"

"Because you are the only one in all the world he loves and the only one who can love him. If you do not return, the happiness of everyone in this world is lost."

"What do you mean?" Belle asked.

"Rumplestiltskin has the power to create a Dark Curse which will end our world. He is very close to accomplishing his goal. Once the curse is sealed, so too will be the fate of all in the Enchanted Forest."

"I don't know anything about magic," Belle protested. "How could I stop him?"

The White Lady reached out to touch Belle's shoulder. A warm peace flooded her spirit. "A curse is only as dark as the heart of the one who makes it. Touch his heart, Belle."

"Are you a fairy?" she asked. Fairies always had the answers to these political issues.

The White Lady laughed and shook her head, "No, Rumplestiltskin would never trust a fairy. But, Belle, you must gather all your courage about you for you do not face an easy task. Love's greatest enemy is fear, and there is much fear in his spirit. Fear is ugly and can be violent. But, remember love does not fail. When love is victorious, Rumplestiltskin will become all he was meant to be."

Belle had many questions, but the White Lady urged her, "Now, go! Rise quickly. The queen's sentries scour the country for you. If she finds you before you reach Rumplestiltskin all is lost."

The White Lady smiled at her one last time before the brilliance of her face was replaced with the morning rays of sunshine breaking through the window. Kindled with the driving urge to turn her steps towards the mountains which offered seclusion, Belle hurried down the stairs. She doubted she had the power to save the world. But, Rumplestiltskin would not face the end of all things alone.


	3. The Resistance

There was a steady flow of customers in the dining room downstairs. Ziva cleared the tables as the early diners finished their breakfasts and hurried to the mines. Several dwarves looked familiar; however, Belle did not see the dwarf with the dreamy look in his eye. She wondered if he had enjoyed his evening on Firefly Hill. As she wove her way through the dining room, several dwarves jumped quickly to their feet, removed their hats, and gave a little bow. She smiled at the unexpected courtesy. Ziva, however, turned her nose up at Belle, gave a noticeably indignant sigh, and quickly marched out the side door toward the kitchen.

Belle approached the bar where Thoughtful was scratching notes in his little ledger book. He murmured to himself throwing in the occasional triumphant snort. She tapped the counter and asked, "Did I do something wrong?"

"Hmm?" he answered distractedly.

"Ziva. She doesn't seem to like me very much."

Thoughtful did not look up from his ledger book, but waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about her. She's accustomed to being the 'fairest of them all.'" He looked up and smiled at her, "Thinks you're here to steal her crown."

Belle grinned and said, "Actually, I want to talk to you about that."

Thoughtful pushed the rim of his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose. "Ah, you've considered my offer?"

"I have," Belle nodded.

"And what's your decision?"

"I'm so sorry, but I can't." She threw up a hand apologetically.

Thoughtful sighed, closed his book, removed his glasses, and placed them on top of the book. "I figured that would be your answer. Though, I can't say I'm not disappointed."

"Oh, well, look," Belle undid the clasp of her necklace and held it out. "It isn't much, but you can take it to help cover my debt. I'm so very grateful for everything."

"No, no, no," Thoughtful shook his head. He closed Belle's hands around the small gold and pearl pendant, pushing it back toward her. He gestured to the slowly emptying dining room, "I've already seen returns on my little investment twice over, miss. You needn't worry about that. Now, I do hope you'll spend another evening with us here. Not for my sake," he said placing a hand over his heart, "But for yours."

Belle shook her head, "It's time I headed home."

As Belle spoke, a quick-footed dwarf with a black beard hurried over to the counter and handed Thoughtful a slip of paper. The bearded dwarf muttered, "Today. Ten minutes."

They exchanged a serious, knowing look before the dwarf nodded to Belle and headed out the door as quickly as he came. Thoughtful unrolled the parchment and scanned it silently.

He slid the paper across the counter to Belle with a somber expression. She saw a perfect portrait of herself in black ink staring up at her from the counter. The color dropped from Belle's face. Under her picture, in the severe block lettering used only by the royal scribes were the words, "By Order of the Queen, Wanted for Questioning." Belle folded the paper and tucked it into her pocket.

"I swear, I've done nothing wrong," she vowed.

Thoughtful nodded, "You have nothing to fear from any dwarf. We may be citizens in the Queen's kingdom, but we refuse to ally ourselves with those who practice dark magic. We do not recognize her authority." He spoke with a hurried hush, "But, as I see you're in a hurry to depart, I do hope you'll allow me to show my gratitude and accept a few traveling essentials. Come with me, quickly now."

Without a moment's hesitation Belle leapt off the stool and followed Thoughtful into the empty kitchen. He filled a sack with a few provisions: bread, cheese, some apples, and anything he could lay hands on that would not spoil. He tossed Belle a leather pouch, which he instructed her to fill with water from the first stream she met. Tossing in a few more burlap sacks he lamented, "As good of a bedroll as I can produce given the time." He scanned the room and with a quick hand grabbed a long wooden staff leaning against a corner, "A walking stick to help you find your footing on tough terrain," he mumbled.

He opened the back door and poked his head out to make sure the way was clear. He motioned for Belle to join and pointed towards the woods. He whispered, "You'll want to head that way. Follow the river. It will lead you back to the road."

With a finger against his lips to call for silence, he pointed towards the village square. There, stationed in front of the very tree Belle had rested against, was a squad of black knights, Queen Regina's sentries. Standing with their hands on their hilts, their eyes searched every dwarf face for signs of weakness. The street was littered with flyers bearing her image.

Thoughtful pulled Belle back and whispered, "Oh Miss, you'll have to proceed very carefully. Very carefully, indeed."

"I'll be alright. But, what about you? Every dwarf in the village knows I was here. What will they do to you?" Belle asked with tears in her eyes.

"Don't you worry about that. As I said, dwarves do not swear allegiance to Regina. If there's something she wants, we're only too happy to see that she doesn't get it. No one will breathe a word."

Belle nodded solemnly; however, she wasn't so sure. She quickly wrapped her arms around Thoughtful and said, "I'll never be able to thank you enough."

The kind dwarf patted her back and then held her at arms' length. "I'll go talk to them and that might give you a minute to sneak out the back and take cover in the forest." He squeezed her arm gently, "Make haste!"

Belle listened as the front door opened. She heard the distinctive step-slide of Thoughtful's awkward gait as he limped across the square towards the tree where the knights were posted. She stuck her head out far enough to see him hold up a hand in greeting.

The knights handed him one of the posters and pointed towards his inn, instructing him to post the flyer on his door. Thoughtful gestured to the paper, asking what all the fuss was about. The knights took a more aggressive stance and insisted he post the flyer immediately. Several dwarves fell in line behind Thoughtful, their pickaxes slung casually over their shoulders. Some shouted sarcastic remarks at the knights. Belle thought she heard someone say something about Snow White. Angry, raised voices carried across the square.

Belle quickly slung on her pack, stepped quickly across the back alley, and headed for the cover of the woods. This would be her only chance to escape unseen.

"There she is!" The loud cry made Belle's blood freeze. It was the voice of a woman. Belle turned and saw Ziva, well water pooling around her feet beside the overturned pail, pointing in Belle's direction. Louder with lightening in her eyes, she called again "She's here!" The black knights focused their attention on the two women standing like statues in the alley.

The knights raced across the square in her direction. Belle, glad now for the boots and shorter skirt, fled quickly into the forest. She slipped through the ancient tree trunks with the agility and speed of a deer fleeing the hunter's arrow in autumn. She glanced over her shoulder. Ziva had not followed her. No one had.

Belle slowed, still picking her way deeper into the forest. She could just make out the village square between the trunks of the trees. Her hand muffled her scream. A great tangle, men and dwarves battled against each other in the small dirt road. The streets were flooded with their numbers. Four of the knights lay dead, pickaxes having pierced their armor and bit into their flesh. The other six were surrounded by no less than thirty dwarves, most of whom held pickaxes. Others had only daggers or knives. The familiar clash of metal against metal made Belle shudder. She knew the sound of war. Small, broken bodies fell into the dirt, joining the larger ones of enemies already at peace.

Suddenly, a purple cloud exploded in the center of the chaos. As the cloud dissipated into inky black smoke, it ignited the eaves of the humble wooden buildings surrounding the square. A woman stood defiantly, arms held high over her head, as the skirmish began to break apart. Belle knew this woman. She had met her on the road the day Rumplestiltskin set her free.

"The queen," she whispered. _Regina._

Regina fired several bolts of lightning from the palm of her hand toward the dwarves. Most were stunned; a few were injured. The battle ceased. Her voice amplified by magic, Regina called out, "Where is she?"

Belle held her breath. Ziva was nowhere to be found. One of the knights pointed in the direction of the inn. Regina acknowledged him and said, "Bring me the innkeeper."

Two pairs of forceful hands pushed Thoughtful to his knees before the queen. Regina began her interrogation, "She was here. Where is she now?"

When he refused to answer, Regina laughed in the kind, old dwarf's face. Out of thin air, she produced a small vial and held it in front of his face. "Your loyalty is endearing. Unfortunately, it is misdirected."

With a violent hand, she forced Thoughtful to drink the bright blue fluid. She grabbed his chin, bent her head down to his, and repeated her questions. Belle wished she could hear his answer. She prepared to resume her flight through the woods.

Regina released Thoughtful as if casting out a rotten apple core. She called to her men, "She's going home! Scour the road from here to the Eastern Mountains. And, when you leave this village, leave nothing but ashes."

When Regina vanished the battle began anew. The knights took the upper hand quickly. Regina's magic had been decimated the dwarf militia.

Belle was about to start back down the hill and stand with her friends when she spied Thoughtful, staggering away from the battle with the help of two other dwarves. They were retreating to the mines. Thoughtful's head bobbed up and down limply as he passed in and out of consciousness. With what was certainly his last ounce of strength, he looked toward the trees where Belle stood motionless. His eyes crossed back and forth, searching for something he could not find. They made eye contact briefly. He smiled faintly before passing out again.

Most of the dwarves followed Thoughtful into the mines, fighting back the knights and grabbing as many supplies as they could. Eight broke away and headed into the forest at the southern edge of town. Belle whispered her thanks, wiped the tears from her face, and forced herself to turn away. Regina was right. She was going home. Toward the Dark Castle.

Belle followed the river for two days before she found the road. Wary of meeting strangers, especially those clad in the black armor of the Queen's guard, Belle followed the path from a safe distance. Regina had sent her men in the opposite direction, assuming Belle intended to return to the house of her father in the east. The Dark Castle was nestled securely in the Western Mountains. There were few villages in the area and small ones at that. Although she would have appreciated the anonymity of a bustling city where strange faces were nothing out of the ordinary, she was glad to accept the obscurity of solitude.

When at last she did hear the steady clopping of hooves and a squeaking wagon wheel, Belle retreated further into the trees. A handsome, yet simple-looking man drove slowly past in a cart pulled by a single, bony horse. He had the same dreamy look in his eye as her little dwarf friend on his way to Firefly Hill. The man did not see her. He was barely watching the road. She wished him well and continued walking.

Two miles later, she came upon the same cart, one of the back wheels sunk into a deep, muddy rut. Belle watched as the young man braced himself against the back of the cart and pushed until he was red in the face. He slipped and fell into the mud, soaking his clothes and getting street filth all over his face.

"You look like you could use a hand," Belle called as she stepped out of the forest. The young man jumped and clutched his hat at the unexpected sound of her voice. "Here," she said, pulling one of the burlap sacks out of her pack and handing it to the man. "It's rough, but you can use it to clean the mud off a bit."

The man accepted her offer and began to wick away as much of the mud as he could from his face. His cheeks were scrubbed red and glowing. He answered, "It's no worry, Miss. I'm a rough enough man. A little scratchy bit of cloth won't hurt me none."

"Your cart?" Belle gestured lamely.

"Stuck, I'm afraid." He kicked the back wheel which had sunk nearly eight inches into the mud, running a hand through his wheat-colored hair. "I think I could get myself out, but my mare won't pull."

"Maybe she just needs a little motivation," Belle offered.

The man nodded, "I suppose so."

"I tell you what," Belle said. "I'll see if I can't get your horse moving from the front, and maybe you can push from the back?"

The man nodded, tossed the dirty bag into the back of the cart. Belle stepped up beside the mare and stroked her nose. The horse was old and had no inclination for hard labor. Belle reached into her pack and pulled out the last apple. She held it out and called to the beast. The mare stepped closer, and Belle took another step back. The harness became taut, and she could hear the young man grunting as he pushed from the rear. Belle took another step, still holding the apple in front of the mare.

"Come on! Want a nice crunchy apple? But, before you get it you have to take a little walk. Just a few steps. Come on!"

With some reluctance, the mare stepped forward and pulled on the harness. Belle heard the driver give a great shout and saw the cart move forward a few inches, then a few feet. Belle rubbed the horse's nose and surrendered the promised treat. After snuffling Belle's hand, the mare gratefully munched the sweet fruit.

Covered in mud once again, the young man reclaimed the bag and began to clean off his face and hands. "I thank you, miss—"

"Belle."

"John," he answered as he extended a dry but dirty hand. Belle, who was in no better shape after two days in the forest, gladly shook his hand.

"It was my pleasure, John."

"Can I offer you a ride, Miss? I know this country, and there isn't another town or village for miles."

Belle paused to consider. Her tired body was ready to ease into the back of the cart. He didn't look like a cutthroat, but looks could be deceiving. She glanced in his empty cart then back to his face. There was honesty there. Belle trusted her instincts and said, "That would be wonderful."

John beamed as he helped Belle up into the seat and threw her pack into the back of the cart. He flicked the reins against the mare's back, and she began her steady walk down the winding path. John asked, "Where are you headed, Miss Belle?"

"West to Odenhad. Do you know it?"

"Know it? I live just before the crossroads. I can drop you off at the corner, Miss."

Belle patted his arm, "I'm very glad to hear it. And, I appreciate the ride."

"I appreciate your help back there. Awful thing getting stuck in the mud. My own fault, really. I wasn't paying attention to the road."

"Your mind was elsewhere?" Belle asked knowingly.

John nodded, "Back in Brigham."

Brigham was a village about 20 miles south of the dwarf mines. His road would not have brought him close to the now demolished village. He likely had not heard about the queen's recent visit to the area. "Where you there on business, John?"

John laughed, "No, no business. Family. At least, I hope so anyway."

"Oh, I see. A sweetheart?" Belle smirked.

"Yes," John blushed. "She visits her aunt in Odenhad every summer. We used to play together when we were little."

"And, I bet last summer she wasn't so little anymore, was she?"

"No. No, she was not. I went to Brigham to ask her father for her hand. He plans to come with her to visit Odenhad. He wants to make sure I can provide. Wants to see the farm and everything."

"Oh, well, I should think you'll have very little to do to convince him."

"Let's cross our fingers shall we?"

Belle sat beside John in the cart for the rest of the day, chatting pleasantly and dodging most of his questions. In the evening they made camp in a wide open field. John urged her to make her bed under the wagon. There she created a fair little nest with the bedroll John insisted she use. He moved closer to the fire, tipped his hat over his eyes, and mumbled something about camping with his father as a child before drifting off to sleep.

The dreams returned. Only, now as Rumplestiltskin spun throughout eternity, she could see herself standing in the background, watching over his shoulder. Sometimes she called out to him, but he never turned away from the great spinning wheel.

They reached the crossroads at noon the next day. John pointed toward each path, "Straight on will take you towards Hartlet, about ten miles from here. Down there," he pointed to the path on the left, "Is how you get to Odenhad. Do you see that bit of chimney?"

Belle nodded, taking note of the quaint red-brick chimney just above the brush not 100 yards from the road. There were a few scrubby acres in front of the house and a faded barn off to the right.

"That's my farm. In a couple of weeks you'll have to come and say hello to Anna. That is, if you're still in town."

If Belle ever ventured to Odenhad, she would have to pass right by John's farm. They were almost neighbors.

"I'll do that. If I can," Belle promised. She pointed toward the path leading to the right. She knew where its shadowed turns led, but she asked anyway, "And, if I follow that road?"

"Oh, miss," John began, "You don't want to go that way. Only one who lives down there is that Rumple feller. I'm sure you've heard of him. If not, trust me, you don't want to bump into him on the road all by yourself. He's very truthful, but he ain't honest, if you catch my meaning."

"Got it," she said and stuck out her hand in thanks. They said farewell and Belle headed towards Odenhad. When she was quite certain John would not see her, she double-backed through the brush and quietly slipped down the long path which she knew would eventually wind through the foothills of the mountains toward the Dark Castle.


	4. A New Bargain

Rumplestiltskin gazed at the slowly turning wheel, endlessly spinning gold out of habit rather than need. Prompted by the hypnotic effect of the wheel, his thoughts floated along the stream of his consciousness like a piece of driftwood atop the ocean waves. They rose and fell, ebbed and flowed, pulled constantly by an unseen current. He could not control the direction or force of his thoughts, just as he could not control the currents or the tides.

Sometimes during this trance-like state, he caught glimpses of the future. For appearances' sake, he allowed people to believe his prophetic abilities came easily to him when, in fact, they did not. To look into the future was effortless, but to provide the correct interpretation of the visions was far more difficult. The future was in a constant state of fluctuation. Thanks to the unpredictability of human will, few events were firmly set in time. In the visions, the past was often interspersed with the future.

Once, he had been able to view his entire life as a tapestry similar to those which lined the great dining hall of his estate. The threads of his life—past, present, and future—interlaced to form a single, and not altogether unpleasant, picture. Those fibers which had frayed and begun to unravel were held in place, hidden by those which were sound.

Rumplestiltskin considered the condition of the most recent strand which had been added to the tapestry of his life. He thought, _This particular thread must be carefully tucked away._

Now, looking into the future was as difficult as trying to see through the murky waters to the bottom of a swamp. Like a stray shaft of light glinting against the scales of a fish, occasionally he caught a glimpse of what was to come. Here, he saw a face clenched in rage. There, the thick drip of blood. And once, he spied the bright blue wings of Reul Ghorm. The images were connected, of that much he was sure. If the vision meant he would one day relieve the Blue Fairy of her shimmering wings, he relished the opportunity. However, the vagueness of these prophecies troubled him, for it meant what was to come depended on a single decision. Once made, the waters would clear. Though the uncertainty was alarming, if he discovered the crux of the future, he could turn events to his advantage and profit substantially.

Unfortunately, of late clarity had not been numbered amongst his assets. It was the girl's doing. A week had passed since he had thrust her out of his life, and still his thoughts were with her. In the past, the turning wheel helped him to forget; now it only forced him to remember with a distilled sort of longing.

The wheel continued to spin, and he saw a vision of her as she placed herself before him, making a chair out of the spinning wheel. Her hand, first on his shoulders, now on his knee, then combing through his hair. The soft curves of her face leaning towards him. Her blue eyes searching into the depths of his. The magnetic force, the likes of which he had never before experienced, which had drawn them together. The living rose petals of her lips gently pressing against his…

"No!" He shook himself fiercely, knocking the thread off the spindle's track. He would not entertain the memory of that day. Even the briefest flirt with that fantasy and he felt the same intoxicating dizziness in his head as if someone were spinning gold out of the filaments of his mind and heart instead of straw. As it was, that fleeting moment they shared had scarred him forever. The unnatural gold color of his hand had never fully returned. Though the nails were as rough and dark as ever, the flesh remained white and soft like the flesh of an early summer peach.

Although he fought against certain memories, others were completely permissible, despite the remorse they provoked. Her stern face, unflinching in the heat of his angry gaze. Her eyes, pouring over with the emotion he so fervently kept in check. His cruelty, banishing the girl without so much as a gold coin or a horse to ease her journey home. The pain of delivering malice was less than the pain of rejecting mutual affection.

For him, the trip from the Eastern Mountains to the Dark Castle was a simple snap of the fingers. On foot, the journey would take nearly a month through rigorous country laced with dangerous outlaws. None so dangerous as himself, of course, but dwarves, ruffians, and cutthroats were hardly suitable traveling companions for even the hardiest of women.

"Plenty of opportunity to play the hero now, dearie," he snickered.

It was a lame attempt to convince himself that what he felt had been nothing more than a momentary infatuation. It had all been an illusion. What was she but a pawn in Regina's plot to secure her position as queen? He thought of all her sidelong glances, thinking he wasn't looking. The way she pouted, blushed, and simpered. Vanity and coy tricks used by women to bend the will of the weak. But, that was all love was. A flicker of happiness before you found yourself standing alone in an empty room. Her love meant nothing because it was nothing. She was nothing.

Three loud knocks from the front door interrupted the dark turn of his thoughts. It had been far too long since he had made any deals. The time had come to return to business. The girl was gone. The world was not. There was much to accomplish before he completed the Dark Curse, which he had all but abandoned since Belle's arrival. Rumplestiltskin leapt up from his seat at the spinning wheel and headed for the front door with a gleeful laugh. He left a rather large pile of gold thread behind, forgotten.

***Belle***

The path was longer than Belle remembered. Leaning heavily on the walking stick Thoughtful had so kindly bestowed, she labored to make her way toward the gates. Perhaps it was the fatigue of the long journey which weakened her legs. Her body was at war with itself, pulling her in two different directions. Her knees felt loose, as if at any moment they would refuse to support her weight. With every step, her feet itched to change direction and make a hasty retreat. But, something in her propelled the rest of her unwilling body forward. Should her legs refuse to carry her, she was certain her heart would leap out of her chest and continue on alone.

Had Rumplestiltskin set up a new enchantment to discourage her return? A powerful sorcerer such as he relied on more effective protections against his enemies than bolted doors and iron locks. Belle saw the gate was slightly ajar—his invitation to any who wished to propose a new contract. Despite the apparent lack of security, Belle knew myriad spells surrounded the property, fortifying the estate. No enemy, save the most accomplished magicians, could penetrate the unseen forces which surrounded his home. She approached the gate warily, unsure if the enchantment would recognize her as friend or foe. With a breath, which she hoped would not be her last, she pressed against the iron bars.

As she passed through the gate unharmed, she began to wonder if he already knew of her pending arrival. It was not often the great Rumplestiltskin was caught unaware, thanks to his second sight. For all she knew, he had seen her turn the last corner of the mountain trail and had watched her slow progress. He would have had all the time in the world to prepare whatever welcome—cordial or otherwise—he deemed appropriate. Steeling her nerves, she used her walking stick to knock against the large wooden doors three times.

In an instant, there was that face, forever composed and mischievous, impossible to read. The afternoon sunlight glinted off of his grim features and the exposed skin of his neck. His elaborate overcoat was the same shade of gold. Belle channeled all her fear into her grip on the staff. She met his gaze, however, with less courage than she had planned. There were none who practiced the dark arts who could claim to be more powerful than him. With a single wave of his hand, he could unmake her.

For the briefest of moments, his mouth opened slightly, as if gasping for air. Belle took advantage of the silence and dared to speak first. On the return journey, she had invented a thousand different stories which she hoped would allow her readmittance into his home. None had felt right. Now, in the moment, she decided on honesty.

"I dreamed of you," she stated. She watched his face carefully, but his expression might as well have been etched in ancient runes for all she could glean from it.

"Belle," he uttered. His voice was choked with more anger than tenderness, relief, or joy. However, all were present.

***Rumplestiltskin***

He expected her to do any number of things: turn and flee down the forsaken path which had led her to his door a third time, plunge a sword into his side, or even attempt to break the curse again as a personal favor to Regina. However, his prophetic visions never anticipated that Belle would take advantage of his silent shock and simply step past him into the grand marble foyer. More curious than angry, he closed the door behind her.

It was the girl's nature to get in his way, walk where she was uninvited, and make herself at home wherever she was. Unlike the rest of the world, she had never bothered to keep her distance from him. Within two months' time she had rearranged furniture, taken down curtains, and cleaned out every locked closet in the house—all without permission. He watched in awe as she removed a weather-worn pack, which he did not recognize. She placed both it and her walking stick in an out of the way corner of the foyer. Memories of Belle, following close on his heels before seating herself atop the table in the great room, flooded his mind.

She stepped through the screen of his memories and into the present as if stepping through a fog. Her hands, soft and feminine, were clasped together. Her eyes scanned the room as if she could find the right words and pick them up off the floor as easily as a dropped glove.

"A dream?" he asked, hoping to prompt her.

"You were spinning as you always do. And, the world faded away into blackness. A new one took its place. Still, you sat spinning straw into gold until eventually that world was gone too."

"It was just a dream," he answered holding his hand out to the side casually. He masked his shock. How did she know about the Dark Curse? Only those few who possessed magical abilities which nearly matched his knew of its existence. He thought of Regina and Reul Ghorm. Which one of his enemies had gotten to Belle?

She shook her head, "I don't think so." She stared down at her feet. "So, I came back."

He grinned and said with as much bravado as he could summon, "Sorry to disappoint, dearie. I don't need rescuing."

"I don't think I could rescue you from the end of the world."

"Then why come back at all?" his words were tinged with poison now. His shock at seeing her was beginning to ebb.

She swallowed hard, "You were so alone. I couldn't bear it." Her words were soft and subdued. Rumplestiltskin envied her strength, living with her heart, exposed and vulnerable.

He stepped close enough that he could stare down his nose at her, but she did not flinch. "I thought I made it very clear that you were not wanted."

"We made a deal," she answered with more strength in her voice. Ah, here was the plan she had abandoned at first sight of him. Rumplestiltskin was the master of recognizing the subtle difference in the pitch of the voice when a half-truth was substituted for a whole one.

She stated plainly, her eyes averted, "The safety of my family, friends, and village from the ogres in exchange for my life with you—forever." She met his gaze, "You kept your end of the bargain. I intend to keep mine."

"I told you to go." He paused to clarify, "Consider your debt forgiven."

"My village," she started.

He waved his hand dismissively, "Your village will remain unharmed by the ogre hoards and you…" he cleared his throat, "are released from your promise."

"Then," she stammered, "I…I want to make a new deal." Belle shivered slightly. Whether from the chill in the evening air or his icy gaze, he couldn't tell.

His eyes never left her form, watching as she picked her way through the collection of artifacts with which she was so familiar. He followed her to the hearth. With a snap of his fingers, flames filled the ten-foot long fireplace, immediately warming the large, ornately decorated room. He pointed to the only armchair and said, "Please, sit. If you will." He grinned.

"And you?" Belle asked, unsure.

"No, I prefer to stand. I prefer to walk," he added quickly. He felt far more comfortable pacing before the grate, taking care not to singe his coat. It required just enough attention so that he could ignore the raging flames within his own heart. She was in his home—the home that she had made her own. Conflicted, he retreated behind his derisiveness.

He spun on his heels to face her, "So, dearie. A new bargain, eh? What's it to be? A new fiancé? A carriage ride home to your father's manor?" Noting Belle's uneasiness as she fidgeted in the chair he added slowly, "Or, perhaps, you want to forget something." He approached quickly and placed his hands on the armrests of her chair. "Something _painful_." He laughed lowly and returned to pace before the mantle.

Belle lowered her eyes. The girl was obviously tired. Her mouth moved silently as if uttering a silent prayer or perhaps a curse. She breathed deeply, steadying her nerves. "Protection from Regina," she answered solemnly. From some unseen pocket, she produced a piece of parchment and held it out for examination.

The likeness took his breath away. There was her intelligent eye, regal brow, and playful mouth. Below her portrait the words were printed in dark bold lettering, "By Order of the Queen: Wanted for Questioning."

She spoke softly, "I was near the dwarf mines when I saw this. Regina's looking for me. She burned the entire village to the ground."

Rumplestiltskin sneered, "Well, that was a long time in coming. The defection of the dwarves was no secret. But, what is it to me to protect _you_?"

Belle shook her head, "Protection for you." She stood up and took a step forward as if to grab his hands in hers and said, "She doesn't want me for myself. She must believe I know some secret—some weakness—of yours which she can use to defeat you. I would never be her ally. But Regina is powerful, and who knows what sort of potion, spell, or curse she has that would _make_ me talk."

The girl was right. Regina's methods of interrogation were long, varied, and cruel. Most of them learned from him. Not only could she steal secrets right off the tongue, but she could rip them out of the heart, and strain memories from the mind like a fly from soup.

Belle continued, "The safest place for me to be is here, with you. If she gets me, she'll have you."

"Why not kill you now and have done with it? You'd make a lovely coat rack," he suggested. He held a hand up, ready to cast the spell.

Belle remained steadfast. Ignoring his threat, she met his gaze and asked, "You still need a caretaker, do you not?"

"No," he answered flatly. "Why would I need a caretaker?"

"I don't understand," Belle said, crinkling her soft brow.

Rumplestiltskin returned to pacing dramatically before the fireplace. He knew he resembled a demon before the flames of the underworld, and it only added to his delight. "I run everything by magic, dearie. Just a snap" he demonstrated with a quick flick of his wrist—"and the whole place is spic and span." His voice had that merry singsong quality, he was feeling more like himself again.

"Then why did you ask me to come in the first place, if not for loneliness?"

Willing only to offer a half-truth, he confessed, "I have no need for gold. I bargain for whatever I want. It was no small delight to see your father's good name and the pride of your darling Gaston marred when their beloved jewel was reduced to service as my scullery maid." He tapped his heels in a dance as he sang with increasing malevolence, "Serve my meals, clean my castle, launder my clothes, fetch me straw!"

Belle wiped a tear away from her eyes reflexively. "So, you only wanted to shame my family. I meant nothing then."

"Or now, dearie. You mean nothing _now_." He bowed in a mock courtesy, laughing at her tears. She shook her head in disbelief. He pressed, "Still want to make another deal? I'm not sure I can think of anything you have that I want. I already have your family pride. Your great beauty could make no improvement on this visage—"

Belle's head jerked up, perceiving a slip of a compliment. Rumplestiltskin quickly redirected, "Nor do I desire your youth, for I am immortal. I would offer to take your first born child; however, I think it quite unlikely you will find a man willing to take a wife whose name is so notoriously connected to mine," he chuckled at the pain she was feebly attempting to hide.

"Alright, you say you do not need a caretaker"

"Nor do I want one."

"Then in exchange for shelter and protection under your roof, I can offer you something I doubt anyone has ever offered before nor will again for some time."

"And what's that?" he asked. He held his hand over his heart and slightly crossed his eyes, "_True love_?" Her head fell at his mockery, she sniffed loudly and tossed her head in disagreement.

"Trust." The emotions she suppressed registered in her throat.

Rumple leaned in with his abnormally large, cat-like eyes. "Trust?" The single word fell upon his ears like honey, though he echoed it back with scorn.

His vast collection contained items both tangible and metaphysical. However, trust was something he had never been able to acquire with or without the powers of the Dark One. It caught in his mind and filled his senses like an expensive perfume. He coveted it. Trust was power over all who offered it.

He dropped easily onto a knee meeting her gaze before growling, "On one condition."

"Of course. Whatever terms you want."

"Under no circumstance are you to attempt to break the curse with True Love's Kiss."

Belle smiled shyly, "Agreed."

Rumplestiltskin sneered and snapped his fingers, sealing the deal. "You can stay in your old room," he exclaimed.

She followed him toward the dungeon in silence. As the stone door swung open, Belle smiled, "So, you do love me."

"I never said that!"

Belle stood just inside the room and turned back to glance in his direction. "It's understood. Otherwise, True Love's Kiss is powerless."

Rumplestiltskin slammed the heavy wooden door in Belle's face with all of his natural strength. He felt a muscle twinge with pain as he quickly bolted the door shut.


	5. Servant, Guest, or Beloved

The morning sunlight warmed Belle's soft cheek. Slowly, she opened her eyes. After her long journey, she was reluctant to leap from the soft, albeit thin, padding of the cot in her cell. The dismal brown stone of the dungeon walled her in on every side. Belle groaned, feeling the ache in her body from the long ride and even longer walk. One thought energized her: The lord of the house sitting at the polished wooden table in the great room alone, waiting expectantly. She was eager to meet him and discover the details of her new arrangement. Would she be his servant, his guest, or his beloved?

Admittedly, she was apprehensive about facing him this morning. She considered thoughtfully the manner in which she had been received. He had been spiteful, sarcastic, and cold; however, he had allowed her to return to the Dark Castle. Perhaps, that was as much of a welcome as she could have expected. While trekking the many miles back to the castle, she had reminded herself repeatedly that it would not be easy to return. The vindictiveness he inherited from the curse of the Dark One overwhelmed his heart. It was no surprise to her that Rumplestiltskin attempted to drive her away a second time with his venom.

Belle gathered her resolve. She called to mind every image she loved of him: laughing at the spindle, catching her in his arms, dashing away from the study window where he had been watching for her return from town. She believed the greatest treasure of his heart was still guarded by the tallest and most formidable walls. Walls which she had not yet breached.

Dressing in the morning was difficult as the house was nearly devoid of mirrors. There was the one in the great room but it was covered by a heavy tapestry, keeping unwanted eyes and ears from eavesdropping. When she had first come to the house she thought Rumplestiltskin kept it covered because he detested his own reflection. However, she later realized he loved his ghoulish features. He took a strange delight in appearing as grotesque and frightening as possible. His grandiose gestures worked purposefully to draw attention to his fierce countenance.

Belle did her best to smooth her hair and dress without a mirror, water, or comb. She was afraid her hair looked as wild as it felt. Perhaps once she reached the kitchen she could procure some of the necessities a lady needed in order to keep herself presentable. If she could arrange it, a bath was definitely in order.

She put her hand on the door and gave it a push. "Locked!" she cried, remembering Rumplestiltskin had fastened the bolt. "But, why? I _want_ to be here. I'm not a prisoner. If anything I should have a lock on _my_ side of the door!" she shouted.

Belle spun on her heels and marched back toward the cot to await her eventual release. She sat motionless on the bed for several moments before she noticed the small change in her surroundings. Something yellow glinted on the door. Jumping up, she hurried to examine it. Her fingers stroked the small, ribbed, golden knob. She gasped as she saw a little golden key sticking out of the lock, which she was confident had not been there before. The key went quickly into the pocket of her blue dress. Taking a deep breath, she tried the door a second time. It swung open gently. Belle stared into the stone hallway, peering all around in silence. She could neither see nor hear anyone.

"Hello?" she asked. There was no answer.

Taking a step out of her room, she softly called, "If you're there, thank you."

The atmosphere in the house felt different already. The darkening gloom had lessened. She added as a joke before hurrying to the kitchen, "But, it wouldn't hurt to make the place a little more comfortable."

Belle ventured to the kitchen more from habit than anything else. Serving meals had been one of her many duties during her previous residence. The kitchen was much in the same condition as it had been when she left, except for the absence of the pretty little china tea set Rumplestiltskin was so fond of. He always insisted on using it, specifically the cup she had chipped on her first morning in the castle.

"Oh, well," she sighed, "this little silver kettle is just as nice." She quickly prepared the rest of the tray to carry to the great room.

Seated in his usual place at the head of the table, Rumplestiltskin occupied the only chair available. Elbows resting on the highly varnished wood, his hands were folded neatly in front of his chin. At the sight of him, Belle felt a dreadful cold knot tighten in her stomach. As she assembled the place setting, she thought herself foolish for hoping to find some spark of delight in the fathomless expression on his face. Suddenly, she felt unsure of every action. Pouring his tea, she remembered feeling much the same way on her first day at the castle. Only, this time he did not attempt to put her at ease with any of his beloved dark "quips."

Just before she had left, the two of them had begun to share their meals together. Now, her cheeks filled with incredible heat as his stony silence and unreadable eye invited her to breakfast elsewhere. She left her bowl of porridge on the tray, wishing she had not appeared so presumptuous. Of course they would not resume life as if nothing had happened. But something had happened, and it could not be ignored forever.

She thought to herself, _Patience._

Clearing her throat, she offered, "Are you spinning today? I'll bring up some straw." Her voice was faint as if coming from a far distant hill.

"No," he answered softly almost tenderly. "I expect I'll have a great deal of business to attend to today."

"I see," Belle replied. By "business" he meant to forge one of his infamous contracts with whichever unhappy soul was desperate enough to beg his help. "Will you be out of the house then?"

He shook his head, "No." Though he often traveled to meet clients, many people came from great distances to the Dark Castle, seeking his assistance.

"As long as you're here, why don't you make yourself useful?" his voice was commanding and cold. "Find something to do, and stay out of the way. The shelves in my study are riddled with dust."

Belle nodded and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Make myself useful. Got it. Excuse me." She kept her head down, quickly gathered the breakfast dishes—including her cold, untouched porridge—and exited the room. In the shaded seclusion of the hall, she allowed her chest to rise and fall with great passion. She would content herself to be a servant. For the time being.

The study served both as Rumplestiltskin's office, where he drafted his contracts, and as his laboratory. It was the only part of the house that showed any kind of age. The dark stone walls made the room cool and refreshing during the hottest parts of the day. Belle loved the room which was wild like a castle out of the ancient legends. Here he ground bits of vile rubbish with mortars and pestles, obliterating the particles until they released whatever shimmering magical essence they held. Hundreds of glass jars, vials, and flasks were neatly arranged on the center table and in organized drawers. The clear containers were filled with a variety of contents that were any combination of lovely, odd, or ominous. It was a world of mystery.

Rumplestiltskin had invited her in just once. She'd had only the briefest glimpse of his world of wonders before he quickly changed his mind. He dismissed her for fear that she would touch something and accidentally turn herself into a fetid puddle of dragon guts.

"Not that I would mind the transformation," he smirked. "I'd consider it an improvement, but I do hate a mess," he laughed ridiculously. Belle smiled at the memory. She missed his laughter.

Belle looked around the room. Aside from the shelves he had mentioned and a few crumpled sheets of paper heaped in the corner, the room was immaculate. Despite his aloofness, asking Belle to clean his study had been a small sort of gesture. Her curiosity was no secret. He was welcoming her back, giving her permission to feel at home. She loved him all the more for his heart, though it was choked with the thorny roots of the evil curse which had so long ensnared him.

The study also housed his rather large collection of books. As a great reader, Belle had been itching to scan the spines since she had first spied the tall floor-to-ceiling shelves. For much of the morning, this served as Belle's chief amusement. She was a great collector of books of various topics and genres. Initially, she hoped his collection would at least partially mirror her own and reveal their kindred spirits.

To her dismay, she quickly discovered most of the books were written in strange runes and utterly indecipherable. Belle leafed through some of the pages, but could interpret nothing. These were the books of a great sorcerer. In the entire library, Belle could read only two books. The first was fragile, hundreds of years old. It was the only book propped up so that the front cover faced out toward the room like a portrait. By the title, Belle recognized it as a book of stories, fables, and folklore. It was a book for children. Out of respect, Belle carefully dusted around its battered edges, but did not disturb it. The second was a rudimentary guide to alchemy. Within its cover were formulas for combining various elements into useful solvents, solutes, mordants, dyes, and powders.

Finished with the bookshelves, Belle progressed to admire the various tools and instruments which he used in preparing his potions, powders, and other magical elements. They were mostly mysterious, some foreboding, and altogether sublime. Even if he had not given her a strict warning against meddling with his devices, she would have known not to touch anything.

A wooden case in the center of the table drew her attention. The shelves were filled with small glass jars. Under each glass was a picture, indicating the intended use of the contents. Some labels were easy to ascertain: here, was a poisonous mushroom; there, was a powder to put any enemy to sleep. Her eyes stopped on a bottle, a heart illustrated on its small white label. It was the only empty one. She sighed and picked up the fragile glass.

"A love potion? You don't need it," she murmured.

She gently set the bottle back in place. Her curiosity satisfied, she decided to fetch some straw from the cellar. She would bring it to the great room later in the afternoon when she was sure the visitors had gone. He enjoyed spinning just before the evening meal. He relaxed and took pleasure in boasting about his triumphs of the day while she polished the long mahogany table. She rolled her eyes and smiled. It was one way to get him to open up.

On the way back from the cellar, she walked past her room. As she approached, she noticed the door was slightly ajar. Her hand flew to her pocket; the key was in place. She hurried closer to the door murmuring, "I haven't anything to steal. What kind of thief robs a dungeon?"

She stopped in the doorway and gasped. The basket fell to the floor with a soft thud. The room had doubled in size. Where there had once been rough stone was now a lush carpet the color of blue irises. The walls were smooth and papered in creams, golds, and sky blues. A large picture window replaced the smaller one. There was a cushioned seat beneath it from proffering excellent view of the gardens. A little chair rested close to a small, but cheery, hearth. In the corner was a small vanity desk with a pitcher and bowl for water, silver combs and brushes inlaid with mother-of-pearl, powders, and a delicate glass bottle of perfume.

Belle smelled it tentatively at first then deeply. "Roses," she smiled as she set it down. Of course, the room still lacked a mirror, but she could make do with her new supplies.

The vanity wasn't the only new furniture in the room. A pewter vase, supplied with a single pale yellow rose, stood on top of a handsome mahogany end table. The legs curved like the neck of a swan. Against the far wall sat a matching armoire. She peeked inside and saw a variety of dresses suitable for her daily use. The thin cot had been replaced with a modest, yet comfortable bed topped with a coverlet striped in shades of silver and cream. She ran her hands over the cotton sheets, feather soft and cool to the touch. A door led to an adjoining tiled room in which a steaming bath waited for her.

"My room," she laughed tearfully. She decided that the enchanted castle, if not the lord of it himself, very much approved of her presence. For several minutes, she ran her hands appreciatively over all the changes, nodding her approval, showing her gratitude. Thinking her absence from the great room would likely go either unnoticed or appreciated, Belle decided to take advantage of the amenities provided by the Dark Castle. Later, after dressing in a soft, rose-colored dress, Belle picked up the basket of straw and headed downstairs.


	6. Love Costs Nothing

Belle attempted to thank Rumplestiltskin for the alterations in her quarters. She started, "I wanted to talk to you about my room—"

He cut her off promptly with a wave of his hand. "Sorry, dearie," he took a deep sip of tea from his cup. "If you don't care for the dungeon, perhaps you'd prefer the stables?"

She did not mention her room again. Although it was possible he did not want to admit his unwarranted act of kindness, it was far more likely he was not aware of the renovations at all. After decades of being run by magic, perhaps the Dark Castle had taken on some magical properties of its own. Just as the hedges never needed trimming, immense doors opened at the slightest touch, and the cellar was always stocked, Belle's needs were met without the involvement of the master of the house.

Although the chores could be completed by magic, Belle preferred to keep occupied. For weeks she worked, performing the same duties as always. She dusted shelves, cleaned rooms, and laundered linens. Three times a day she would serve a small meal, which Rumplestiltskin ate alone, in either the great room or his study. They spoke little.

However, day by day Belle felt the tension lessen. Rumplestiltskin relaxed into his chair when she entered the room. If she struggled to balance and support the weight of the serving tray, he teased her. This pleased Belle immensely. His haughty superiority was preferable to his unflinching stoicism. Most monsters turned to stone when exposed to daylight; Rumplestiltskin was a statue returning to flesh.

One day Belle was just about to open the tall, heavy, wooden doors when she heard two voices from within deep in discussion. Her hand stopped on the latch. The first voice was easily recognizable as Rumplestiltskin's; his high pitched giggle punctuated the end of every other sentence. The other voice, taut with anxiety, belonged to a man who sounded familiar.

"Sign it," sang Rumplestiltskin.

"I don't know," the other hesitated.

"Do not waste my time. Sign it, and you won't have to worry about your little field."

"The price is steep: My harvest for an ox and a plow? What will we sell in the fall to earn money for next year? What will we eat in the winter?"

"Sounds like another deal for another day to me, dearie. It isn't my fault your slow-footed beast went lame or your rusty plow shattered like a rotten tooth in that quarry you call a field. Are you interested or not?"

"Her father said he wouldn't agree to the marriage unless I can provide for her."

"Not my problem. Sign the paper, and it won't be yours either—until the harvest."

There was a deep sigh followed by, "You drive a hard bargain, sir. One that I am sure I will live to regret."

"I have a potion to cure regret, if you're interested."

The man wisely refused this second offer. Belle heard the scratching of a quill on paper followed by Rumple's laugh. She stepped back quickly, hiding behind the opening door. A large, simple, but kind young farmer slipped out into the foyer then down the long stone path leading back to the road. It was John.

"Poor man," she said quietly.

A voice at her side made her jump, "Poor man? He made an excellent deal, if I do say so myself."

Belle's mouth dropped open as she stared at him as much for his callousness as his willingness to converse with her. She marched into the parlor and set the basket of straw down behind the spinning wheel. Rumplestiltskin immediately took his seat and began the mysterious process of spinning straw first into thread and then into gold. His expert hands worked fast. Belle could not follow the movements.

"An excellent deal? You've robbed a man of a year's wage." _So much for staying out of the way_, Belle mused to herself.

Rumplestiltskin stamped his foot on the platform and spun around to face her. "Robbed? Never! I traded a few bushels of vegetables so he can work and earn wages for the rest of his life. And, in the process, he gets a dear little wifey to have and to hold." He turned back to his wheel and began to spin again. He muttered, "A very good deal."

"A wife who's going to go hungry and cold this winter because her husband had to give all their crops to you."

He waved his hand dismissively. "They'll make a way. You'll see. And if they don't," he paused to snicker, "I'm sure we can come to another arrangement." He worked in silence for a few minutes before turning and gazing into Belle's concerned face. He added without any levity, "Don't worry about them, Belle. Trust me."

Belle softened, remembering her promise. Crops often failed because of drought, floods, hail, fire, or pestilence. This would not be the first time a farmer failed to reap a profit from his harvest. Yes, it was a devastating loss, but one for which farmers were prepared. Like many small communities, the people of Odenhad were considerate and generous with those who fell upon hard times. Rumplestiltskin was right, they would find a way.

"Still, you don't always have to keep everyone under your thumb like that," she chided, refusing to let him off so easily. Two weeks was long enough to wait. The time for change was now.

Rumplestiltskin lifted his right hand and looked carefully to see what was underneath. "Nobody there, dearie," he chuckled.

Belle stifled a laugh and placed her hands on her hips. "You know what I mean. You could try to be a little more…" she searched for the right word, "benevolent."

"I work to the mutual benefit of both parties. Everyone gets what they want."

"Only you get a little more."

He shook his head, "No, I get only that with which my clients are will to part. Everything comes with a price, no matter what you believe. Nothing is free."

"You believe that?"

"Of course!" He paused in his motion to examine the thin thread of gold which was trailing along, forming a neat little pile. He preferred heaps of gold over tightly rolled skeins.

"What about gifts?" Belle tapped her foot impatiently.

"No such thing as a gift, dearie. They come with their own set of complicated obligations, which are often unspoken and difficult to discern."

"You must have had very poor experiences with gifts, then," Belle stated.

"Ah." He grew silent for a time and then answered softly, "Yes."

Summer followed fast on the heels of spring. Belle wished the sunshine which had so quickly melted the snows on the lower peaks of the Western Mountains could as easily warm the heart of Rumplestiltskin. Belle spent three weeks trying to find some way to break down the barriers around his heart. She knew they were in place solely to guard against her advances.

One afternoon, Rumplestiltskin sat contentedly on the stool in front of the great wheel. Belle busied herself by dusting the various oddities on display. She was just about to comment on a pair of particularly disturbing marionette puppets, when she heard the front doors slam as if blown open by a strong gust of wind.

A loud voice called, "RUMPLESTILTSKIN!" Although it was decidedly feminine, the voice carried all the commanding authority of royalty.

Rumple leapt out of his seat. "Regina," he whispered. His eyes darted to Belle, and he asked, "Trust me?"

Belle hardly had time to nod her head in agreement before he snapped his fingers. She tried to tell him that she trusted him, but was unable to speak.

"Flimsy locks!" Regina exclaimed as she opened the door to the parlor with a casual wave of her arm.

Regina took in her surroundings quickly. Belle froze with fear as the queen's dark eyes quickly flitted to and passed over her position by the display. Certain Regina had not seen her, Belle tried to relax. However, her entire body was rigid and refused to move. Her limbs were locked, bent at sharp angles. Incapable of moving her head, she could just barely see her lap. Instead of her blue skirts, there was only the soft brown leather seat of a chair. Had he made her invisible? Odd, she hadn't been sitting at the time, and there had been no chair there moments before. Suddenly, she understood the nature of her concealment. Belle had become an armchair.

"I have a deal to discuss—a certain mermaid," Regina announced getting straight to business. She sauntered over to the table and poured herself a cup of tea from the silver kettle on the tray. With a raised eyebrow, Regina took note of the tea set. Nothing escaped her attention.

"I'm not dealing today. And, I don't deal in mermaids anymore, dearie. Too slippery. You'll want the sea witch."

Regina set her cup down forcefully. She tossed her head in disgust. "Ursula, ugh. How ghastly. She's grotesque."

"Rotund," corrected Rumplestiltskin. He added, "She'll have what you need."

Regina did not look satisfied. "Good, because that red-headed little trout has her eyes on a prince I've been stringing along for months. Unfortunately, it looks as though the feeling is mutual. Can't have true love go spoiling everything now, can we?"

Rumplestiltskin did not answer. Regina turned and leaned a hip against the table. She paused to take a long draught from her cup. Her long black hair swung about her waist in a single, unending spiral. A cunning smile spread across her face like oil on water. "Speaking of true love, Rumple, where is that fetching young girl I met on the road?"

"She left weeks ago."

Regina's mouth and eyes opened in mock surprise. "You're kidding. By the look on her face I could have sworn she was smitten with you."

Rumplestiltskin narrowed his eyes and tossed his head. "Your little deception failed. You'll never be more powerful than me. You can keep trying, but you're never going to beat me," he growled.

"You mean she didn't kiss you?"

He took a step forward and thrust his face in Regina's, letting her take a long look at his monstrous gold-flecked appearance. "Oh, she kissed me, dearie. As you can see, it didn't take."

Regina cleared her throat and gently extricated herself from her pinned position between her enemy and the table. "Well, I suppose we were wrong."

"We?" he asked sharply.

A wickedly doleful laugh burbled up out of Regina's chest. "It was all over the country. Surely, you knew that." She waved her hands as if reading a banner, "Rumplestiltskin takes a lover!" She laughed again.

"Ah, there's your problem. That's not the same as true love."

Regina took another step towards the doors. "An excellent point, one which I had not considered. And, a mistake I will not repeat, you can be sure. You'll find the next girl suits your _tastes_ more exactly."

"It won't work, but do send all the girls you want, Regina. If Belle taught me anything, it was that having a little female companionship can be quite _amusing_." He paused then added bitterly, "We're done."

Regina was not pleased. She set her mouth and lowered her eyelids. "Fine. I have other calls to make. By the way, have you finished it yet?"

"Not yet. Soon."

"I'm ready to make the exchange. Don't keep me waiting. The moment it's complete, I want to know." She turned to go but called over her shoulder, "New chair, Rumple?"

***Rumplestiltskin***

For ten agonizing minutes, Rumplestiltskin watched as Regina's black carriage sped down the path away from the Dark Castle. It was not beyond Regina's devices to make a grand reappearance. She would pretend she had forgotten to mention some minute detail. So, he waited, glaring out the window, scratching deep grooves into the sill, and leaving tattered shreds of paint underneath his nails.

The moment the carriage disappeared around the mountain pass, he rushed over to the display case Belle had been dusting and reversed the enchantment. She sank to the floor in a heap, convulsing violently. Belle was not weeping; she was shaking with rage.

"How could you do that?" she demanded. The words, heavy with the weight of her outrage, hung low and heavy in her throat.

"If this is about turning you into a chair, I'm sorry. I promised to protect you. Regina wouldn't hesitate to hurt or even kill someone I —," he corrected himself, "someone innocent." He added with hesitation, "If it makes any difference, you're the first person I've ever turned back."

With great difficulty and labored breath she managed, "You used my name."

"Yes," he admitted with confusion.

She repeated herself, "You used my name and then let that woman think you—that I—that we" the idea aborted on her tongue.

He lifted his hands as if to take one of hers but halted awkwardly with indecision. This did not escape Belle's attention. She smacked his faltering hand down with violence into thick area rug which had cushioned her fall.

"You'd rather call me your harlot than admit you were too afraid to love me. You're still a coward, Rumplestiltskin." Her eyes flashed, boring holes into his skull.

He scowled and fired back, "I did nothing but protect you, as per the terms of our agreement." It was an accusation as much as a statement. What of her end of the bargain? Had she forgotten her promise to trust his methods, to trust him? What did it matter if she sacrificed a bit of her virginal pride?

"Is that how you protect someone?" Her voice rang with agitation and rising anger. She got to her knees and began to yell in his face, "Turn them into furniture, ignore them, and tarnish their reputation with the most sordid filth imaginable?"

"I warn you, dearie," he growled holding up his index finger in the air as a caution.

"What are you going to do, hmm? Snap your fingers and turn me into some treasure you can lock up in your display case? Like your chipped cup. You could pitch me against one of these marble columns and watch the shards fly as I shatter."

He twisted his face into a loathsome and sinister glare, preparing for attack. She had earned this, and he would enjoy dishing it out with as much toxic venom as he could summon. He snarled, "Oh no, a beauty such as yourself would do better as a delicate rose, severed at the stem, and placed on that table where I could watch your beauty wither slowly, fading petal by petal, over the course of a week until you were dry and brittle. Then I could toss you into the fire and incinerate your desiccated corpse."

Belle gasped and put a hand over her mouth. "Gaston!" she cried. The hot tears of rage welling in her eyes cooled and spilled over her lashes the way fog leaves behind morning dew.

"Did you figure it out at last?" Rumplestiltskin said with an evil laugh. He leapt to his feet and sauntered across the room. He was impressed she had made the connection. She was brilliant. However, intellect did not merit reprieve. "Your _true love_ gave his life to rescue you. He did not forget you so quickly as you him."

Belle stood, matching him inch for inch, and struck a defiant pose. She held her hand against her chest and cried, "He was never my true love, but that doesn't mean I didn't care for him. It doesn't mean that I wanted him dead. You killed him. You black-hearted fiend!"

"Oh no dearie," he sneered. "I didn't kill him. I merely" he waved his right hand smugly, "altered his appearance." With the same hand he mimed a pair of scissors, "It was _you_ who cut the thread of his life."

Belle covered her face with her hands and moaned in anguish, no doubt remembering the red rose he had offered her. Thinking it an ordinary flower, she had casually cut the stem and set it in a small metal vase. Rumplestiltskin smiled, knowing Gaston's final blood-curdling scream would echo in her ears every time she replayed in her head what had once been a pleasant memory.

Belle staggered towards the chair in front of the fireplace. The color had drained from her expressionless face. Something had been poured out of her. Rumplestiltskin set his hands behind his back and pretended to examine his artifacts. In reality, he was enjoying his delicious victory. He turned at the sound of her voice with renewed curiosity. If she wanted more pain, he could supply it.

"I wanted to prove you need not fear the cost of love. I wanted to show you love costs nothing." Her voice was hollow. She stared blankly into the fire.

"How charming," he crooned, summoning all the mocking hatred he could into his voice, increasing the fervor and volume of his accusations as he went. "Is that why you came back? You wanted to spend your days at my side proving the value of _true love?_ What delightful fancy accompanied your steps on the return journey? Long walks together in the garden? Reciting romantic poetry by the light of the fire? Perhaps you thought you might hold my hand in the quiet of the evening with nothing save the sound of a ticking clock over the mantle!" His chest heaved along with his breath. He waved his hand in invitation and raised his eyebrows in expectation of her next attack.

Belle rose from her seat slowly, as if pushing against a strong current. Her tired eyes met his. There was neither light nor depth in those blue oceans. They were flat like acrylic on canvas. She looked at him and then beyond him. Her feet followed her eyes, and she walked to the door. He heard the clicking of her heels on the marble followed by a gentle, composed thud as the front door was opened and shut.


	7. Out of Shadow

_Let the world end, _Belle thought to herself as she trudged down the front walk.

More than anything, she needed to breathe the air beyond the castle walls. She crossed her arms over her chest as she passed through the gates of the Dark Castle and continued down the winding path. The valley suddenly felt oppressively cramped. Perhaps the air in Odenhad would feel freer. For just an hour or two, Belle wanted to pretend there was no curse, no darkness, and no magical commission to save the world. She was just out for an afternoon stroll.

But, she did not have the energy to summon idle daydreams. Her thoughts continuously returned to Rumplestiltskin. He was the great offender. What was the cause for his viciousness? He made her name a disgrace and confessed to the murder of the man who, had things gone differently, would have been her husband now.

"Oh, Gaston," she murmured as she remembered the proud young knight. Her father had arranged the marriage. His choice was no surprise. Gaston and her father were the same: overbearing, proud, afflicted with an inflated sense of chivalry, and completely ignorant of all the things Belle valued. He would have made a fine husband for some other girl back in her village, but not Belle.

The flower Rumplestiltskin had given her was a favorite memory. Now, it was stained with blood. The unprompted gift had seemed genuinely sweet. She thought he had given it just to see the smile on her face, but he was motivated by fear. Fear that she would leave with Gaston if given the opportunity. Fear that he would lose her. So, Belle had cut the stem of the rose, and the Great Curse claimed another victim.

No matter what the great fairies, wizards, and witches said, as far as Belle was concerned there was only one curse, the Great Curse: Fear. From it all other curses were born. Hate, pride, violence, and regret. All were the children of the Great Curse. The Dark Curse was just another offshoot. She despised the Great Curse with a white-hot anger.

Fear has no place in love. The power of True Love's Kiss lay in its ability to cast out fear. Belle wiped a tear from her eye. If only she could love Rumplestiltskin enough to free him from trepidation. He had kissed her, and the curse had begun to lift. However, he had wrapped his cowardice around his neck like a heavy chain. His heart was also counted amongst the casualties of the Great Curse.

What of the White Lady's warning? It was not the end of the world which bothered Belle. All worlds end in the natural course of time. What troubled her was end of all happiness. If the Dark Curse was cast, how many souls would live in torment for eternity? There would be no more love, joy, or peace. All who lived within the borders of this realm would lose themselves in a haze of fear, grief, and bitterness. Rumplestiltskin would find himself in good company.

By the time Belle rounded the final turn opening upon the crossroads, her heart was heavy and burdened. She looked at the world and saw only shades of dismal gray. Would her vision be forever overcast by a fog of despair?

A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated the form of a sturdy young farmer sweating in the middle of a scrubby half-plowed field. Belle watched as he followed behind the plow, pulled by a strong ox, making straight, narrow paths in the dirt. He stooped to pick up a rock and toss it off to the far edge of the field. When he saw Belle, standing fifty yards away at the end of the road, he called out to her.

Despite herself, Belle smiled and stepped out of the shadows into the sun. It was warmer, and she felt her mood lighten immediately. "Hello, John." She met him at the fence bordering his property.

"Well, where have you come from? You've not been up to see that feller on the hill have you?"

Belle toed a rock with her shoe. "I'm afraid I didn't follow your good advice."

John removed his hat and wiped the sweat off his brow. He nodded thoughtfully, "There's no other house this far back from town. Was he in high spirits, Miss?"

Belle considered the explosive fire behind Rumplestiltskin's eyes as he slit her soul with his forked tongue. "Very."

"Oh, I hate to hear that."

She held up a hand, "It's nothing to worry over, John. I should have expected as much." He did not look convinced. Belle gave an awkward smile and gestured to the field, "I see you're working hard today."

He nodded, "Oh yes, Miss. Must make up for lost time. I've gotten a late start to the season, what with the wedding and all."

"Wedding?" Belle asked in surprise.

John smiled as wide as the sky, "Oh yes. I'm surprised you hadn't heard. Anna and her father came up two weeks ago. We were married just a few days later."

"How wonderful! John, your sweet Anna, at last!"

John blushed deeply and leaned on the fencepost. "You wouldn't want to meet her, would you?"

Belle held her arms open, "I'd love to."

John followed along the fence and walked with her to the small cottage. The thatched roof would need replacing soon, and the fieldstones were worn down by the winds of fifty winters. She wondered if John had mentioned that the first year's crops were already bought and paid for by the imp on the hill. Belle envied them. Their beginnings might be humble, but at least they were happy.

Instead of entering the tiny cottage, John ushered her around to the side of the house. A wooden barn, just five summers shy of dilapidation, cast a shadow over a small fenced yard. A short, rustic maid was standing in a pen surrounded by ten white sheep. Her cheeks were rosy from the heat and work, and she pushed pieces of strawberry blonde hair underneath her kerchief. The skirts of her dress were tucked into her belt allowing her to move freely.

John's new wife was engrossed in her work. In one hand she held a cruel-looking metal knife with not one but two sharp blades. With her left hand, she forced a lamb onto its back and held up the knife ready to slash its neck. Belle gasped. She was not prepared to see the spilling of blood.

Instead of slicing the creature's throat, the metal tools began to work at the sheep's thick coat of wool. Belle watched in wonder as the wool fell away in one heavy sheet. At first, the sheep bleated in protest, but it submitted quickly to Anna's swift and steady hands. Within just a few minutes, the sheep had been relieved of its cumbersome cloak and neatly trimmed. Happy and much cooler, the animal wandered toward the water trough.

"Anna," called John from the fence. "Come meet Miss Belle. She's the one I told you about."

Anna looked up and smiled widely at her husband. Even now, surrounded by bleating farm animals and wearing muddy boots, Anna looked every bit the glorious, blushing bride. She dusted her hands off on her skirts and stepped carefully through the sheep hold.

Sticking out her hand, Anna said, "Miss Belle, is it? A pleasure to meet you. I have to admit, seeing you now, it's a wonder you didn't make off with Johnny's heart back in the spring."

It was Belle's turn to blush. "He talked of you the entire time."

Anna glanced at John and winked, "That sounds about right. Good for nothing except talk." She laughed and rubbed John's arm, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

Belle pointed towards the sheep, "What was it you were doing there, Anna?"

Anna turned and glanced at the sheep, "Oh, that? Just shearing the sheep. My dowry, if you can believe it. I couldn't believe Pa insisted on driving the sheep all the way from Brigham without shearing them first. I suppose he just didn't want to bother with it, but I can't complain. I'm lucky to have any dowry at all."

John hushed her, "You didn't need a dowry. I would have given anything to make you my wife."

Anna looked very serious and nodded, "I know." Belle could see honesty was one of John's greatest virtues. At least Anna could prepare herself for the trouble ahead. They would weather the winter together.

Anna returned her attention to Belle, "Miss Belle, I'm afraid I've got a bit of mucky work ahead. But, if you'd like to sit for a while, I'd love it if you'd join us for tea as soon as I can manage. It's not more than an hour from the table."

"Of course, I'll stay. Can I help at all?"

Anna shook her head, "Not unless you know how to use shears."

"I'm afraid not," Belle replied.

"Then just sit over there in the shade and see if you can't learn a thing or two while I work. You can keep me company."

Belle agreed and took her place on a wooden barrel just inside the fence. The sheep caught her scent and avoided her corner of the hold. Eventually one or two ventured over to give her a gentle nuzzle. She stroked their soft, newly shorn bodies. Belle enjoyed watching Anna work. It was wholesome, honest labor that made for a weary body but full heart. There was no darkness in this.

Despite Anna's request, Belle was not much company; however, that didn't appear to bother Anna who focused intently on removing the burdensome coats of wool. Belle wondered if life had ever been as sweet and simple for Rumplestiltskin as it seemed to be for John and Anna. Even in the shadow of a debt which threatened the security of their future, they worked with joy and contentment. She doubted if Rumplestiltskin had ever felt that kind of peace. If he had, it had not been for many years.

Rumplestiltskin's life was steeped in selfish ambition, political intrigue, and wild, dark magic. He had once confessed that he liked to spin because it helped him forget. At the time, he had been unwilling to admit the source of his pain. Perhaps he wished to forget what his life had become and remember what it had once been. Spinning, even straw into gold, was one of the few occupations he enjoyed in which darkness faded into the background. Though the act was magical, the work still required the use of his hands. Perhaps, he found it cathartic.

Suddenly, Belle had an idea which exploded in her mind like a sack of flour dropped on the floor. Rumplestiltskin was well aware of his faults. He flaunted them whenever possible. There was no purpose in bringing them to his attention. In fact, calling attention to his least desirable qualities would do more harm than good. However, she could remind him of those lingering bits of his soul yet untouched by the curse of the Dark One. If she could stir up the good in him which she knew was there, then she could make him remember what it felt like to be free, even in bondage.

"Those fleeces—what are you going to do with them?" Belle asked.

The cheery bride placed a hand on one hip and scratched her nose with the back of her free hand. "I don't know really. These sheep were bred more for their meat than for their wool."

"Would you consider selling the fleece to me?"

After a cheerful meal, Belle began the long walk back up the mountain pass. Anna had given her a basket and filled it with as much wool fleece as Belle could carry. Tucked under her arm was a loaf of apple cake wrapped in several layers of cheesecloth. It was still warm from the oven. Anna had been so pleased with the unexpected sale of the wool, she insisted Belle take the sweet-smelling dessert home.

Belle had no money with which to trade. When she left her father's house, she took only the silk gown on her body. Since that time, she had wanted for nothing under the provision of the Dark Castle. But, gold has many forms and not all clink and clatter. With her free hand, Belle stroked the skin just below her throat.

_It was just a trinket_, Belle reminded herself, brushing away the lingering twinge of remorse.

The pearl pendant and gold chain had belonged to Belle's mother. She had died just before Belle's sixteenth birthday. The necklace was special, but it was only an object. The memory of Belle's mother could never be contained in so small a thing as a piece of jewelry. Only a fool would put his soul into something so easily destroyed.

***Rumplestiltskin***

How many times would he be forced to watch that intrepid girl call him a coward and march through the doors leaving him suddenly alone? The muscles in his jaws clenched with rage, and he ground his teeth together. He slammed his hand down against the table repeatedly, before deciding to channel his anger into something more productive.

Taking the spiral steps two at a time, he ran up to his study. He quickly prepared his instruments, ink, and powder. With a sigh of relaxation, he sat down at this desk and scanned the lines of the Dark Curse. There were few in the world who could read the ancient runes. He would have to interpret the cruel symbols for Regina when they made the exchange. The ominous lines were part of an evil language abandoned long ago by even the darkest wizards for its malevolence. Even if the curse was discovered, the world would live in ignorance of the hellish doom about to be unleashed. When the Dark Curse ended the world, it ended all happiness forever. There would be no deliverance.

Rumplestiltskin's quill fell to the paper, and he resumed the work discarded so many years ago. From the moment Bae had dropped into the portal, Rumplestiltskin had been on a mission to find his son. He had loved Bae, raised him, and provided for him. How could he forsake the boy, allowing him to live out his days alone in a land that was not his own? He had given up his very soul for the boy. Whatever happened, Bae must know that the man who had been both father and mother was still alive inside the monster he had become.

In the process of attaining enough power to forge the curse, Rumplestiltskin had lost track of time. One day, decades ago, he had realized more than one century had passed since Bae fell out of the world. The boy was lost to Eternity, a place beyond the reach of any force in the Enchanted Forest, save the natural progression of time in the life of a mortal man. The gates of Eternity were sealed against the Dark One.

Without the hope of recovering Bae, his lust to complete the curse had wasted. Then, Regina had made her offer. Jefferson's hat promised what Rumplestiltskin had long ago discarded: hope. There was no magic in this world which could carry him past the gates of the afterlife. Here, the living and the dead were always kept apart. However, Jefferson had described a hallway with hundreds of doors leading to magical worlds, many of which were unexplored. Rumplestiltskin would open them all until he found a way to be reunited with his son.

A small part of him felt a twinge of guilt. Jefferson had a young daughter. The man may be a powerful world-jumper, but he was a fool to leave behind his most precious possession. He would learn a hard lesson while trapped in Wonderland. The combined grief of separation from his child and outrage over Regina's betrayal would likely drive the hatter to madness.

He had intended to return to the Dark Castle and complete the curse immediately. However, he had picked up Belle along the way. The girl was nothing but a distraction. Her presence in the house had unnerved him in a way he had never experienced. When she entered a room, his eye was fixed on her form. When she spoke to him, he found he was always out of breath. And, when she smiled at him, his heart was filled with a light he could not repress.

The way he felt about Belle was unlike anything he had shared with Milah, his first wife. Their guardians had arranged the marriage through the local matchmaker, and they had met on their wedding day. Before his disgrace in the First Ogre War, they had gotten along well enough. However, theirs was not a stirring romance. For them, love, if it could be called that, was based on obligation and duty.

Belle was also bound to him by duty, but she acted as if her obligation was also her pleasure. She performed every menial task he commanded without objection. Instead of resenting him for her circumstances, she searched for an excuse, any excuse, to admire him.

Of course, the girl was not without her faults. She asked too many questions—questions which always made him feel uncomfortable—but she never made any assumptions. It made him want to answer honestly. She always got in the way and went where she was uninvited, but she never kept her distance. It made him want to let her draw near. She was a fool to take everything he said at face value, but she never doubted him. It made him want to speak without guile. She appreciated his small gestures with delight, never questioning his motives. It made him give with a generous hand. She laughed along with him. It made him wish to hear her laugh again. She fearlessly pointed out his greatest faults. And that, more than anything, made him want to flee the field of battle all over again.

A quiet knock from the stairs startled him. He looked down at the parchment. How long had the finished curse sat open in front of him? Minutes? Hours? The ink was dry. Once it was sealed, it would be complete. The knock came again, and he turned to see Belle leaning against the wooden railing at the top of the spiral stairs. With a tilt of his head he motioned that it was okay to enter. She had changed her clothing. Instead of her usual blue dress, she wore a pale yellow one. It reminded him of the first night he'd seen her in her father's advising room.

She kept her position by the stairs, leaning against the banister. "I took a long walk," she said quietly. "To clear my head."

He exhaled sharply, "And?"

"And," she paused, hesitated, and stepped out from behind her barrier all the way into the room. She grabbed one arm with the other and chewed her lip. "I'm sorry."

Rumplestiltskin could think of no reason whatsoever for anyone in the world to offer him an apology, let alone the lovely young girl fidgeting so pensively by the stairs.

"Belle, don't—" he waved his hand to stop her.

"I was wrong. I shouldn't have said the things I did."

"No, you had a right to be upset. Your honor—" he trailed off.

She shook her head, "I thought about that. And, I decided it's more important that I know who I am and what I've done. I would never—" she started.

"No, never," he offered, wanting to spare her.

"Until marriage."

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, Rumplestiltskin felt a knot loosen and tighten repeatedly. The dishonor she had perceived was not in attaching her name to his, but in attaching her name with carnal desires. It was the act, not the partner, which offended.

She continued, "I'd give anything to have those words back."

Rumplestiltskin stood and walked over to her. The life was back in her eyes, but the spark had not yet returned. He had meted out more damage in one morning than she had in her entire lifetime. He held his hands out like balance scales, revealing his debt in comparison to hers, "Your forgiveness in exchange for mine."

The faintest whisper of a smile made the edges of her eyes crinkle. She answered softly, "Deal."

Belle excused herself to bed. Rumplestiltskin returned to his desk and waved a hand over a candle, igniting the wick instantly. He took out the sealing wax and held it over the flame. The dark red wax began to soften first then liquefy. With bated breath, he rolled the parchment up and held the sealing wax above the overlapping edges. Just before the wax fell onto the paper, Rumplestiltskin jerked his hand back. Several large crimson drops, resembling blood, splashed onto his wooden desk. He would wait to seal the Dark Curse. It wasn't finished.


	8. Into Light

The next morning, Rumplestiltskin ventured to the great room a few minutes after he heard Belle's light step in the stone corridor leading to the kitchen. He waited for her, seated in his chair, at the head of the table. When Belle entered the room carrying the breakfast tray, he grinned at her over his neatly folded hands. "Morning," he called cheerfully.

"Morning," Belle answered with a smile on her lips and in her eyes. "Nice to see you're in a good mood." She looked at the tray and picked up the cup with the chipped edge. As she filled it with steaming hot tea, she remarked, "That's funny. I don't remember putting this on the tray."

Rumplestiltskin laughed as he accepted the cup. He took a long sip and raised his eyebrows as he watched her from above the rim. "Magic," he answered with a flourish when he set his cup down. "Or perhaps your memory is not what it once was. I have a potion for that—if you're interested, dearie."

She rolled her eyes, "No, thank you. I don't think I could afford it."

Sitting on top of its flat surface, Belle settled into her usual place at the table. Rumplestiltskin watched as she adjusted her skirts and carefully balanced her bowl of porridge in her lap. He bent over his toast and began to slather on spoonfuls of orange marmalade. It pleased him that she had resumed her presumptuous attitude. He was prepared to offer her the entire estate just to persuade her to continue making a nuisance of herself.

When he glanced up, he saw her eyes dart away quickly. Color bloomed on her cheek, and he could not suppress a faint smile. She looked at him again and laughed once.

"You caught me," she admitted.

Belle smiled at him again, without reservation, like the sunrise. A sensation of warmth began to radiate from the center of his chest until he could feel it in his very fingertips. It was almost like the surge of power he had felt when his name had been inscribed on the Dark One's blade. Only, that had been cold and dreadful like slipping under the surface of an icy pond.

"So, you've decided you _like _sleeping in the dungeon, eh?" Laughter was preferable to the strange fire kindled within his chest.

She shook her head and leaned in as she said playfully, "No." Her hand flew to her collar bone. "But, it's nice to hear you laugh."

An unexpected answer, Rumplestiltskin sat back in his chair as if to distance himself from the girl. She was relentless. "What?" He looked at her incredulously.

She licked her lips, "Your laugh. It fills the room. It's been ages since anyone in my village laughed—at least like that. I mean, with the ogres and everything, there hasn't been much to laugh about. Even before the war, father never laughed. I suppose he had too much on his mind."

"Yes, like how to marry off his homely, willful daughter."

Belle's eyes twinkled as she scrunched up her face in feigned indignation. "Well, then, I guess that makes you my father's hero."

Rumplestiltskin placed his hands behind his head and leaned back, "Oh yes, _that _was the real agreement. I believe the message read something like, 'Forget the ogres, save us from Belle!" he laughed again. "I was only too happy to help—for a price."

"Mmhmm, and what riches did my father offer for his only daughter?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Rumple fired back, "A half-empty bag of bread crumbs."

Belle chuckled softly as she drained her teacup. She set her cup down beside her and leaned over towards him. "Are you busy today?"

With a wave of his hand, Rumplestiltskin silently shut the iron gates outside and sent the straw back to the cellar. Belle did not notice. He shook his head and murmured, "No."

She pounded on the table lightly and said, "Great. Wait right here." With that, she jumped off the table and marched out the door. Within a few minutes he could hear the heels of her shoes echoing off the stone floor. She sashayed into the room, looking every inch the queen she should have been. Her head held high, she delighted in the glorious condescension of looking down her nose at him. A sly smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. Even her feigned haughtiness was lovely.

A large, roughly woven basket, hung in the crook of her elbow. In her other hand she carried something wrapped in cloth. She set the basket on the table with a secretive air and quickly stood in front of it, blocking Rumplestiltskin's view.

"What's all this?" he asked attempting to peer around her body to examine the mysterious basket.

Belle danced from side to side, protecting her secret, her hands held behind her back. "Just a little something I picked up on my walk yesterday." She reached over to the smaller parcel and unwrapped a homely little pound cake.

"This," she said as she passed it under his nose, "is for later." Despite its crude appearance, the loaf smelled of fragrant apples. She slapped his hand away as he attempted to snatch it out of her grasp.

He gestured to the basket, which did _not_ smell of fragrant apples. While odor could not be described as pleasant, it carried a certain familiarity. It made him think of cold spring mornings on quiet green hills. "And this?"

Belle knelt beside his chair and rested her chin on his armrest so she could look up into his face. "Teach me to spin."

For reasons he could not name, the very idea sent shivers of anticipation down his back. Pushing the unexpected emotion aside, he gave a loud snort, "If you want gold, dearie, you'd have better luck in the mines with the dwarves. Only I can spin straw into gold."

"No, teach me to spin wool into yarn." She pulled back the cloth to reveal a heaping pile of unwashed fleeces, releasing the earthy stench which had been held back by the thin cotton barrier.

He gingerly replaced the cloth and set the basket aside. "Where did you get" he pointed at the cake and basket frantically before saying, "that?"

Belle stated proudly, "I traded for it."

"You're not serious?" he asked, wanting to confirm her answer.

"Yes, and I think I made an excellent deal."

He lifted the cloth and looked again, "It hasn't even been skirted, which explains the smell. I hope you didn't give much."

Belle absently held a hand over the bare skin just below her neck. She mumbled, "Nothing I couldn't part with."

_Her neck_, he thought. He vaguely remembered some little bauble which she had worn. A small teardrop pearl hung on a delicate gold chain. "Your pearl," he said, pointing at her neck.

She lowered her eyes and shrugged, "It was nothing."

He shook his head. "No, it wasn't." He pointed at her gently, "You wore it every day. I remember. Who gave it to you?"

Belle raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side, "It was my mother's."

"Ah, a family heirloom," he surmised.

"Not quite. It wasn't even her favorite. She always said it was too small."

"Like you?"

Belle laughed nervously. Rumplestiltskin said, "I've seen enough mothers and daughters to guess."

Belle nodded, "One day, she opened her jewelry box gave it to me. I think she was just trying to get rid of it. But, it suited me."

"And, you parted with it for" he gestured with mild disdain, "dessert and carpet wool?"

"You said you always bargain for something you want. I wanted the wool, so I could learn to spin. I got what I wanted."

He nodded incredulously, "Yes, and don't forget the cake."

Belle's eyes widened and she gasped, "It smelled so good coming out of the oven. Anna offered, and I couldn't refuse."

"Anna?" he asked.

"John's wife."

"The farmer with the ox and the plow? His dear little wifey?"

Belle nodded and leaned in conspiratorially, "You were right, Rumplestiltskin. They found a way."

"Indeed." He sighed and cast an eye at the basket, "Well, if you think _this_ is an excellent trade, dearie, then you and I should do more business together. You'll make me very rich," he said with a snicker.

Belle stood up and placed a hand on her hip, poised for a lecture, "You know you catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

"Why on earth would I want _more_ flies?"

"People, not flies."

"You mean you want me to catch people with honey?"

"Yes."

"And, then turn them into flies. Ooh, you are wicked. Maleficent seems an angel by comparison."

Belle laughed at him and sat on the edge of the table gently swinging her feet back and forth. "No. I mean people are more willing to trade with you if they think you're kind."

He opened his eyes unnaturally wide and held his hand to chest, "Ah, I understand you now, dearie! You've lured the farmer in with a deal working grossly in his favor, so the next time he won't expect you to rip the rug right out from underneath his feet. Brilliant!"

"You'll have to try it sometime," she said sarcastically.

"I will, I promise, at my earliest opportunity," he answered seriously. He glanced up at Belle questioningly, "And, we're certain that I'm the Dark One? Because, this catching flies with honey business is truly the product of a devious and cursed mind."

"I know one way to find out," she said with warmth dripping from her voice.

He narrowed his eyes and shook his finger at her. She kicked his chair playfully with her feet. With a little cough, she cleared her throat and sat up straight. "So, will you teach me?"

"It's a bigger job than you realize." He toed the basket with his foot, "Considering what you've got to work with. There's skirting, washing, and carding. All that must be done before you can even think about spinning."

"Just tell me what to do. And, I'll do it." She raised her eyebrows and suggested, "Name your price."

"You want to make a deal, after all? Sorry, dearie. Business hours are over."

Belle narrowed her eyes and smiled. "With you, business hours are never over. And yes, I want to make a deal." She took a saucy step forward and emphasized every word: "Name your price."

Rumplestiltskin answered impulsively, "Three hairs from your head." Had he spoken too quickly?

Belle looked down her nose at him. "What?"

"You heard me." He was not accustomed to explaining himself. He would not start now.

She considered briefly before nodding her head in resolution, "Agreed."

He could barely contain his elation when he snapped his fingers and said, "Done!"

Belle clapped her hands and gave a little shout for joy. "So, what comes first?"

"Skirting," he answered as he handed the basket of wool to Belle.

"What's that?" she asked with a smile on her face.

He conjured a pair of large scissors that just moments before had been resting on the desk in his study. These he set on top of the basket. "It's best done outside."

He followed her as she marched into the halls, through the kitchen, and out into the back courtyard where the linens were usually hung to dry. Periodically, she glanced back at him with a triumphant grin. She set the basket down on the gravel and looked at him expectantly. He instructed Belle to lay each fleece out on the ground.

As she worked, he lectured about the different qualities of wool that made up a single fleece. The bits around the head, stomach, and legs were usually too coarse, short, or dirty and needed to be discarded. Despite the long trail of years separating him from his days as a shepherd, he was surprised at how much he remembered. She listened raptly and asked intuitive questions.

"So, you'll want to cut away all the coarse wool from the edges, especially those bits there and there," he pointed towards the dark brown tags. "Vegetable matter, in addition to smelling foul, adds a certain itchiness to the wool."

"Vegetable matter? You mean, dung?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he answered frankly.

Rather than flinging the fleeces back into the basket, or politely requesting a pair of working gloves, Belle continued to shear away the clumps of manure tangled in the wool from the animal's backside. She laughed, "I'll be sure to wash my hands before supper."

Rumplestiltskin laughed with her before conjuring another pair of scissors and kneeling on the ground beside her. "Let me help you with this one." He pointed to the fleece she was working on, "Don't forget to remove the wool from the shanks." Belle quickly obeyed and proceeded onto the next fleece.

They worked together in the sunshine for several minutes. Rumplestiltskin finished skirting the last fleece with disappointment. He had forgotten what quick work skirting was. The basket had been able to hold only four or five fleeces. He remembered shearing and skirting two hundred sheep in a single day. As he trimmed the rough edges away from the fleece, thirty summers' worth of sunshine-drenched valleys flooded his memory. The peaceful hours of his life.

He had forgotten the quietness of the hills. Since he was 12 years old, he had mostly worked alone with no company save the wind and the gentle bleating of the herd. Milah had never been interested in anything as droll as the work of a shepherd. Bae had just started to join his father on the hills when the armies began conscripting children for the Ogre Wars. Although he had always preferred the quiet, peaceful rhythm of a shepherd's work, he had wished for someone willing to ease the solitude, if not the silence. He smiled at Belle who was collecting the discarded tufts of wool to add to the rubbish heap. She smiled back without a word.

_A cunning little bird_, he mused.

* * *

**A/N: **I always love to read your reviews!


	9. The Work of Our Hands

Belle proved an eager and obliging student. She obeyed Rumplestiltskin's every instruction regarding the fleece. She learned quickly, so he was free to assist or otherwise occupy himself as he pleased. He preferred to watch Belle work, but occasionally he helped with the heavier tasks. In order to strip the wool of its greasy outer coating, it had to be washed in boiling hot water. Wanting to spare her the endless trips between the well the courtyard, he waved his hand and filled the washbasin with hot water.

"Thank you," she chirped as she used a wooden paddle to submerge one fleece after another.

"At your service," he replied with a bow.

"I'll have to owe you," she said with a wink.

The following afternoon was quiet and uneventful. Carding wool was an easy, but time-consuming task. Belle passed the entire day sitting quietly by the fire gently pulling the large paddles, which resembled wide hairbrushes, over the wool. Her delicate hands rolled each finished tuft into the shape of a cylinder just as he had demonstrated.

Rumplestiltskin spent the morning in the great room with her. He sipped his tea slowly and pretended to take inventory of his collection, all while attempting to make awkward conversation. Belle asked many questions about sheep, wool, and spinning, but none about him. He never had to explain his life as a poor shepherd with only enough sheep in his flock to keep starvation at arm's length. He never had to admit that even before he was the village coward, he was the village pauper.

Eventually, Belle stopped asking questions. The silence in the room chafed, begging to be filled with confession. Without a word, he stepped out of the room and retreated to his study. He passed an hour grinding the bones of a wolf into a fine powder. Another powder was similarly fashioned out of the seeds of the red poppy flower. Once both ingredients had been prepared, he placed them on his golden scale, making sure the weights were evenly matched.

"Mind if I join you?" came Belle's gentle voice from the stairs.

Rumplestiltskin looked over his shoulder in surprise. Although he had come here to escape her presence, his heart began to pound at the mere sight of her. With a somewhat worried expression, he nodded and motioned for her to come inside.

Never one to wait for permission, Belle had already begun to seat herself and arrange her baskets of clean wool and carded rolls. She picked up her hand carders and began to work again. There wasn't much wool left. Perhaps tomorrow she would take a seat at the great spinning wheel.

"What are you working on?" Belle asked.

Rumplestiltskin focused on the gleaming yellow balances. The bone dust and poppy powder measured evenly. He answered distractedly, "I'm making a salve that will prevent the transmission of the wolf curse if applied to the bite. There's a village a day or two from here that has been complaining of trouble at every Wolfstime. I thought I might offer my services." He said with a grin.

"I've read about the children of the moon."

"Ever met one?"

"I don't think so."

"You would remember," he said as he focused on gently mixing the two powders. He added three drops of wolfsbane oil. With a wave of his hand he enchanted the mix. It took on a faint red glow. "They are fierce, violent, dangerous creatures."

"So, are you," she retorted, making him smile.

"Alas, dearie," he turned to face her with a sneer and raising a finger to the sky, "There's no powder, salve, or potion which can keep me at bay." He gave a little laugh.

"Don't need one," she answered, clearing her paddles and rolling the wool. "If you can see beyond the claws and fangs, nothing's ever as fierce as it seems at first glance."

He turned back quickly to face his work without acknowledging her words. He pushed them away to a safe place in his mind where they would keep until he could process them in private. He dumped the glowing powder in a large bowl and added a generous amount of aloe vera. Once the mixture was stirred, he began to portion it out into small clay jars.

She continued, "I've read the children of the moon can control themselves during Wolfstime. But, first they have to acknowledge the truth and admit they're not monsters. Then they're free."

"You learned that in a _book_, Belle?" he replied with mild contempt. He could stifle her optimism only at the cost of extinguishing his own hope.

Belle answered without shame, "Yes."

"If I were to take you to this village, what would you do? Stand before the beast and ask it to exhibit some self-control? Try and make it tame? It would devour your flesh without remorse. Books are useful, but no substitution for experience."

"Now that I think of it," Belle reflected, ignoring his speech, "I think I did see a pack in the forest at Wolfstime. At first, I just thought they were wolves. But, now, I realize they were far too large for that, and I was near that village you mentioned. They were beautiful. I couldn't believe how free they were: running through the forest, the moon shining on their fur, afraid of nothing. And, there I was huddled under a blanket of leaves, shaking with fear at the slightest noise. I would have given anything to join them."

Rumplestiltskin swallowed hard at the thought of Belle, cold and afraid, in the middle of the dark woods. He cleared his throat, "You're the exception to the rule. Most would have killed them on sight. My salve shall sell very well."

"Of course, you're right. It's a shame, though. Fear separates us from so much." She paused briefly and said, "Oh, well, look at that. All done." She set the carders in the empty basket by her left and picked up the basket full of rolled wool. Draping a basket over each arm, she stood and said, "I'm going to go start on dinner."

He watched as she disappeared down the spiral steps. His composed face had begun to soften when her bright auburn head popped back in the frame of the door, "Do you want me to bring dinner up here?"

He held up his hand and shook his head. "No, I'll come down."

She nodded, smiled, and was gone again. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Belle was an exceptional young woman. There were few in the Enchanted Forest who could admire the beauty and grandeur of a child of the moon during Wolfstime. And, even fewer who would dare admit to envying their condition. He wondered if the woman even believed in monsters at all.

***Belle***

That night, Belle lay awake recounting the day's victories. Here he had smiled, and there he laughed—not the impish grins and giggles with which his mannerisms were riddled, but real joy. Once or twice she thought she had seen something different in his eyes: a faint glimmer of an answer found. Belle had no way of knowing either the question or the answer, only that it gave him a moment of peace.

They behaved together as they once did. Belle was easy and free while Rumplestiltskin's mood swung between mania and quiet reservation. He had not demolished the walls surrounding his heart; however, Belle imagined he had put in a little window, just large enough for the two of them to converse.

In the morning, Belle hurried through breakfast. He had promised to teach her to spin today. After clearing the dishes, Belle returned to the great room to find Rumplestiltskin sitting in front of the spinning wheel. For an hour, he filled her head with the mechanics of operating the wheel. He named each part, explaining its function in relation to the whole. He showed Belle how to adjust the tension of the bobbin and spindle. Belle nodded and filed as much of the information away as she could.

Then, he began a demonstration. With hands that moved too fast for Belle to follow, he spun the wheel with one hand, twisted the wool with the other, and then, like magic, the yarn wound itself around the spindle. She watched, mesmerized, as he repeated his actions creating a longer stretch of yarn. There was so much involved, Belle could not take it all in. Eventually, she stopped trying to watch the whole and focused on the parts. First, she watched his left hand, twisting the fibers. Then his right, spinning the wheel back slowly in one direction then forward and back again. She sucked in a sharp breath, causing Rumplestiltskin to turn his head.

"Something the matter?" he asked quizzically raising his brow.

She shook her head, "It's like a beautiful dance. I never realized."

"You've seen me spin before, Belle."

"Straw into gold. This is different." She gestured to the small loops of yarn twisted tightly around the spindle. "_This_ is magic."

He smiled and lowered his eyes. Giving the wheel another gentle spin, he murmured, "I suppose it is." When the wool in his hand was nearly out, he let it hang gently, stood, and offered the stool to Belle. "Your turn, dearie."

Although Belle had watched carefully and followed all of Rumplestiltskin's instructions, the lesson proved to be a difficult one. The task demanded a certain coordination of the hands which Belle lacked. She felt clumsy trying to turn the wheel and twist the wool at the same time. If she concentrated on the wool in her left hand, she forgot to turn the wheel. If she spun the wheel, she would neglect the yarn.

Rumplestiltskin clicked his tongue with just the mildest hint of frustration. He chided her saying, "Mind the tension. Don't forget the wheel. Keep the twist even." He showed her how to overlap the fibers when adding more wool, or as it was in her case, reconnecting the yarn after it had snapped or loosely fallen apart. She could tell he fought the urge to scoot her off the stool and finish the job himself, which only made her smile. When she was finally able to wind several yards of yarn around the spindle in without mishap, he gave a short sigh and said, "Let's take a break."

After lunch, Belle resumed her seat at the spinning wheel. Rumplestiltskin kept his distance, making little notes in a ledger at the table. Belle worked slowly, trying to master the skills she had learned in the morning. The evidence of her poor talent was marked in the changing tension, width, and softness of the woolen fiber, which was at times as wide was a pencil and at others thin like a pine needle. In some places the twist was set firmly like thread. However, she cringed at the several yards which hardly resembled spun yarn at all.

She attempted to focus on creating a smooth even line, but the tension became too much, and the line snapped repeatedly. When she broke the thread for what seemed the hundredth time, Belle threw up her hands in anger. Frustration finally edging out pleasure, she gave a little growl and flung the wool down, hoping for a dramatic slamming sound. However, the material was too light. Rumplestiltskin looked up from his ledger with mild concern.

"I'm never going to get this. I'm sorry for wasting your time," Belle grumbled.

Rumplestiltskin stood up and hurried over to where she was seated on the stool. He stood just behind her, looking over her shoulder, examining her work. "Now, Belle, a deal's a deal."

Impulsively, he reached his hand down the length of her arms, taking her hands in his. He guided her movements, helping her to feel the rhythm, the slow beat of the wheel's music. She shivered. It was the first time they had touched since her return to the Dark Castle. She wondered if he felt the same current of electricity shooting down his spine.

Unable to resist, Belle relaxed into his arms, swaying gently along with the back and forth motion of the wheel. She could feel the sharp ridges of the angular leather lapels on his vest. A sigh escaped her lips. Her eyes closed, and she let her head lean back against his left shoulder. His breath was warm against her neck.

He whispered softly, speaking in rhythm with the turn of the wheel as they rocked in unison, "It just takes practice."

She turned her head towards the sound in her ear. He lingered there for a moment, just a moment, before jumping back and holding his hands up defensively, excusing himself.

Her lips curled up slyly, "I'm doing it."

"Yes, you are," admitted Rumplestiltskin in a breathless fashion. He pointed to the thread as if to clarify precisely _what_ Belle was doing, "Excellent work."

That night as Belle slipped under the covers of her glorious bed, she reflected on the day. She knew what she had accomplished. When Rumplestiltskin had leapt back, his eyes had been as large and luminous as the full moon.


	10. The Great Curse

"What _are_ you doing?" Rumplestiltskin chided as Belle bit into a piece of toast. She was seated, as usual, on top of the table, plate cradled in her lap.

She pointed at her plate with what remained of her slice of bread. With a full mouth, she innocently answered, "Eating breakfast?"

He waved his hand towards her impromptu seat. "On the table?"

"Yes."

"You're ruining the varnish."

Belle set her dish down and inhaled deeply through her nose. "Well, pardon me. But if someone would kindly give up his seat for a lady, then I wouldn't have to perch up here like some overgrown chicken."

He said flatly, "Did you not see the chair?" He gestured to the opposite end of the table with a broad grin.

Belle scanned the room with incredulous delight. There, at the opposite end of the table, was in fact a second chair identical to the one Rumplestiltskin currently occupied. A pleasant sort of surprise registered on her face as she gathered her things in an orderly, ladylike fashion and moved to the end of the table. He smiled into his tea, as pleased with her reaction as he was with himself.

Belle said something; however, he didn't quite catch the words. He looked up from his tea curiously. After so many years of dining alone, he had forgotten how long the table was.

She called out a bit louder, "Thank you."

He heard her this time but pretended otherwise. Instead, he held a hand to his ear as if he couldn't hear her. "These ears are over 300 years old, dearie. You're going to have to speak up."

She called, "You know, I think you might hear me better if I moved closer."

He shook his head. "No," he answered quickly.

The chair was meant to give Belle a sense of belonging, not only at the table but in his home. He wanted her to know her presence was welcome. However, he had forgotten that Belle did not mind intruding. She liked to take up as much of space as possible, especially his space. She was more at home in the Dark Castle than he was. He should not have been surprised that she refused to be kept at arm's length.

Still, he hesitated to let her draw near and with good reason. Yesterday, before he realized what he was doing, he had grabbed her hands to help her understand the rhythm of the spinning wheel. When he felt the soft skin of her arms against his, he had been unable to let go, struck by an unseen immobilization spell. Then, she sighed and relaxed into him as if he were a deep leather sofa. They swayed in unison, his heart beating with the speed of a hummingbird's wings. Yet, the back and forth of their motion was calming like the waves crashing on the shore. For a time, the wheel's enchantment worked over them both. They forgot the Dark One. Rumplestiltskin had been a shepherd teaching Belle to spin.

The last time he held her in his arms at the spinning wheel had been briefly marvelous then painfully disastrous. He wanted that magnificent moment again, a thousand times over. Yesterday, unwilling to step back and end it and unable to step forward into further bliss, he was rooted in place by fear. At last, he managed to whisper into her ear, hoping to bring the task at hand back into focus. She looked at him with a steadiness in her eyes that would not be disappointed. He had nearly repeated his mistake and kissed her waiting lips. With all his strength he had pushed himself back and away from her.

Throughout the night he dreamed of those crystal blue irises, perfect circles edged with black, and her pupils wide and dark like the endless fathoms of a well. He had thrown himself into those depths countless times before waking. The girl was in his mind, and he could not free himself.

Now, she glanced down at her plate in dismay. He mumbled, "As close as you like."

Belle's face lit up with joy. She made a show of quickly grabbing her dishes, this time in as unladylike a fashion as possible. Hoping to take full advantage of the invitation, she rushed to the other end of the table. Before he could refuse, Belle laid out her place setting directly beside his, not even bothering to move to the adjoining side of the table.

Feeling color rise in his cheeks, he stared at the teacup in his hands and chuckled softly. He exhaled loudly, unable to conceal his grin any longer. She scooted his dishes to the side just enough to make room for her own. With a knuckle, she nudged his arm and he found the courage to meet the gaze of her smiling eyes. She did not need to ask. He snapped his fingers, and the chair reappeared at the end of the table just inches from his.

In his youth, he envied the young couples seated thus with their heads bent together, sharing secrets. Now, youth returned to him as he relished the heady intoxication swirling through mind and heart. Belle turned to address him, her knees gently grazing his. He swallowed hard, stirring his tea longer than necessary.

She gestured to the chair, "What do I owe you?"

He answered, "Nothing."

"Nothing?" she enunciated with surprise. "I thought with you everything came with a price," she teased.

He shook his head, pointed with his silver spoon, and answered quietly, "It's my chair. I'm keeping it."

Belle's laughter sang off every rafter in the room. A hundred echoes bounced into his heart.

When their cups and plates were empty, Belle asked "Are you dealing today?"

"No."

"Then you must be spinning. Shall I fetch some straw?"

"Ah, no. Today, you are spinning. You need the practice," he added with sarcasm. He did not mention how well he liked the sight of her at his spinning wheel or how well it soothed his soul, if only he could keep his distance.

"I see. Well then, allow me to clear the dishes," she began as she reached for the bowls.

He held up a finger and chided her, "Ah-ah, I'll do it. You get to work." He snapped his fingers and the dishes were cleaned, washed, dried, and safely nestled back in the kitchen cupboard.

***Belle***

Late in the afternoon, Rumplestiltskin examined the spindle with as much chagrin as Belle. He fingered the material and shook his head with disapproval.

She wrinkled her brow, "That bad?"

He stared at the yarn, "You know, this is an _enchanted _spinning wheel. But, I didn't think it could make anything quite like...this." He held up a yard of uneven, fraying yarn.

"It's only my second day. I'm getting used to it. At least the line isn't snapping anymore."

"Yes," he murmured, "But, at this rate, I think I'm going to run out of gold before you can spin an even line."

Belle sighed and rested her hand on her hip. "More like I'll run out of wool."

"You might be right, but you're still learning." He took a step back and shot her a smirk. "We can always get more wool; although, I might ask you for a favor. If you're going to deal in groceries next time, get them to throw in a cheese or two."

She threw him a haughty look, "Maybe I will."

Belle smiled, returning to her work at the wheel. Rumple launched into animated reenactment of Belle trading her precious trinkets for rubbish at the market. She sold a gold ring for a half-eaten corn cob, a silk gown for a dirty dish rag, and a vial of perfume for a pail of pig slop. He did a triumphant little dance when he got to the part where Belle exchanged a ruby the size of a plum for a rotten potato.

"Oh, my rotten potato!" he cried in a falsetto voice. "Dear little rotten potato!"

She took no offense at his benign humor, having come face-to-face with the shades of his demonic malice. His lighthearted teasing bore no resemblance to his caustic vitriol.

"You're very funny," she stated from her stool.

Rumplestiltskin stopped his show, snapped his fingers, and dropped into the chair which had appeared near her seat at the wheel. He sighed, "You think so?"

"I do. And I'd wager a gold coin that I'm not the only one."

Placing his hands behind his head and crossing his legs at the ankles, he propped his boots on the edge of the wheel's platform. "Then you owe me a gold coin."

"Teach me to spin straw into gold and I'll pay you back faster."

"Never! You'd roam the country trading gold pieces for duck eggs and fruit tarts. You'd flood the economy, drive up inflation, and ruin the kingdom."

"You're right," she agreed with a giggle.

He sighed, "No, dearie, no one thinks I'm funny."

"Because they're too busy being scared. I'd bet—"

"You already owe me one gold coin, care to make it two?" he interrupted.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "If they knew you like I do, they would see it."

"And they would laugh," he commented. All the merriment had dropped from his voice.

"Well, yes."

He shook his head slowly, "I don't want them to laugh at me."

"Laugh with you then."

"Or with me. If they laugh, they're not afraid. If they're not afraid, they're not desperate. If they're not desperate, they're not interested in anything I have to offer."

"I see," Belle said quietly. After a minute, she asked cautiously, "Would it be so terrible—not profiting off the misery of others?"

He gave no answer. She tried again, "I mean, you and I get on pretty well, and I'm not afraid of you. If I needed something, I would come to you for help."

His silence troubled her. Was she pressing too much? If she thought he would permit it, she would stop spinning the wheel and sit by his feet with a hand draped over his knee. But, something spoke inside her, _Gently, like turning the wheel._

After he had been silent some great while, he said, "People expect me to name a price, and usually I can find something I want."

_Like me_, she thought to herself. Suddenly, she felt she was back in the small armory, the last stronghold of her childhood home. Marauders had stripped the house of every item of value, save Belle's silk dress, her necklace, and a few books. In the background, she heard the cries of her dying kinsmen against the steady beat of the ogres' war drum. Rumplestiltskin picked her out of the crowd like a child choosing a favorite dessert. She pushed the thought away as he began to speak.

"I've seen what the ogres can do. To a village. A house. A man. A boy. Did I tell you I was in the first Ogre War?"

Belle shook her head. She picked up another handful of wool and overlapped it with the end of the piece she had just spun.

"It wasn't for very long. I ran from the battlefield. Violence like that can turn a man evil from the inside out. It robs wives of their husbands," he paused, choking on his words, "sons of their fathers. The ripping, rending, dripping violence of war. It's ugly. Even uglier than me, if you can believe it. So, I fled and let the ogres break the bodies of the men on the front lines."

Belle wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. Her anger melted away. He was not indifferent to the suffering of war. The drop slid down the angles of her knuckles and fell soundlessly to the floor.

Her voice thick with emotion, she said, "You didn't run the day we needed you."

"I didn't need to. Before I was just a man, but now," he flourished his hand, "I have the power to stop an army with a wave of the hand. I am as much a coward now as I was then."

Belle wanted desperately to ease his guilt. "I don't know that. You could have died beside your brothers that day, but that was not your path. You were meant for something else. You couldn't save those men. Maybe you made a mistake, but we learn from our mistakes

"Perhaps not. Perhaps some of us are doomed to repeat our mistakes. I will always run."

He shook himself a little to clear away the deep reverie of his somber thoughts. Gleeful wickedness crept back into his eyes. "Now, when I kill someone, I find it's far more preferable to turn them into something really useful. Like a stool."

Belle sniffed and looked down at the legs of the wooden stool on which she was seated. Rumplestiltskin pointed and mouthed, "King George's cousin." He gave a weak half-laugh.

She forced a smile, but was quickly overcome with emotion. She excused herself, drew her hand against her bleary eyes, and ran up to her room. He was guilty. His entire life, his very soul, had been the forfeit. Belle hardly knew if she was weeping because of the great anguish he had suffered or the great agony he had caused.

All pain stemmed from the Great Curse. It destroyed life. It made love lame. It cut off hope and cast a shadow of despair over all that was good. The Great Curse had not originated in Rumplestiltskin, but it had enslaved him. It used him as tool to dispense agony, malice, and heartache through the blackened tips of his fingers. She could abandon Rumplestiltskin to the Great Curse, or she could fight back with the only weapon in her arsenal.

As the moon rose in the sky, Belle set her jaw and resolved to break the Great Curse. Despite it all, she would come alongside this man. She refused to let even the darkest truth cripple her love. She would fight the blackness of fear with the flame of love, igniting hope in every corner of her heart, illuminating all that was hidden and good within him. She would cast the darkness into the light, where it could not exist.


	11. Firstborn

Belle did not appear at dinner. Rumplestiltskin slowly closed his fingers into a fist, extinguishing the fire as easily as it had been kindled. Why should she desire the company of a monster? The next morning, it was his turn to hide. Instead of moving to the dining hall when he heard Belle's step on the spiral staircase, he remained upstairs in his study. He ignored the pages of the open book in his hand.

He was startled out of his trance by the steady beat of steps on the staircase. His eyes turned toward the banister at the small auburn head which peeped around its edge. It was followed by a graceful neck, a diminutive yet feminine body, and the sweeping folds of a skirt. The color of the satin was altogether strange. As she stood still it appeared blue, yet in the sun it took on the shade of a cool green pond, and in the shadows the colors became muddled like the bottom of a lake. In her hand she carried the silver tea tray.

"You're hiding from me," she stated matter-of-factly.

He looked down and nodded in admission. He was a coward. Cowards hide. He could not meet her gaze.

"Don't," she said as she entered the room and set the tray down on a little end table.

Belle arranged the tray so it was within arm's reach. When she handed him a cup of tea, the warmth from the cup pushed out the chill which had set into his fingers. In her usual manner, she placed herself wherever she pleased, mistress of the house. This morning she was inclined to join him on the sofa where he had seated himself long before the dawn. She tucked her knees up onto the cushion and neatly placed her skirts, running her hands over the fabric.

She said absent mindedly, "I do love this dress."

"It's an unusual color." His eyes drifted to the material of her gown draped over the edge of the couch.

She nodded sweetly. "It's reminds me of your eyes."

He exhaled sharply, unsure if she meant it as a compliment or in jest. Glancing in her direction, he saw her gracious smile. Her eyes invited him to abandon all feelings of guilt and shame.

She nudged his shoulder playfully. Urging him to cheer up she pleaded, "Not even a little?"

He allowed the corners of his mouth to lift slightly as he stared into his cup of tea.

She gestured out the window, "Come on, look at that. It's a beautiful new day, filled with new hope."

At all times, Belle's presence affected Rumplestiltskin strongly. Whether she smiled, simpered, or simply occupied the room, she utterly terrified him. He could never anticipate her behavior. When he expected polite silence, she asked pointed personal questions without restraint. He was afraid to answer her sincerely, but something in her countenance compelled him to honesty. She knew him better than any other living soul. Although she was largely ignorant of it, her power over him was immense. And in moments like these he was terrified of the silence, begging to be filled with questions whose answers might forever change her opinion of him.

If her fingers grazed his skin— perhaps his arm as she handed him a cup—he felt the sensations pulse along the entire length of his body. It was as if a lightning rod had been inserted into his veins. If she didn't touch him, he feared she might never touch him again. Being with Belle was being swept along a rushing stream without boat or paddle. It was exhilarating, but there was a sense of powerlessness which he could not suppress. Much of the time he fought the current, only to be dragged down by the weight of his own boots. A small, but growing, part of him hoped if he could occasionally break the surface to catch his breath, the current would carry him safely to a lovely shore.

From the corner of his eye, he could tell Belle was restless. She had adopted his unsettled disposition. Her fingers fidgeted with her cup, and she was chewing on her lower lip. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and decided to let the river carry him downstream.

"Something on your mind?" he asked.

She nodded thoughtfully. Her eyes remained focused on her cup as she answered, "When my father proposed that we call on you for aid, one of his advisors said something about you. That we didn't need your kind of help."

"Ah, and what was the nature of his accusation?"

She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye then quickly looked away. "He said you bargain for children. That you steal them from their mother's arms once they're born. Is it true?"

Rumplestiltskin stripped his face of all emotion. "What do you think?" he asked solemnly.

"I don't know."

The muscles in his jaw twitched, and his eyebrows went up as he fought to keep his composure. His heart was racing. His breath was short and shallow.

"It's true," he answered.

He paused, waiting for Belle's indignation and outrage. Her face grew dark and perplexed. The line of her lovely mouth drew down, and she wrinkled her brow. However, she remained quiet, offering no condemnation. For the first time since becoming the Dark One he felt the need to explain himself.

He spoke slowly with deliberation, "I don't _steal_ children. I never steal anything. The terms of my contracts are specific. The understanding: mutual. You might be surprised at just how many people are willing to sacrifice their firstborn for so small a thing as a pair of glass slippers."

"Fools—all," she whispered.

"Quite," he agreed.

"So, you just show up when they're born and take them and then what?" Her wide blue eyes shimmered with emotion.

He waved his hand to illustrate the room, "Do you see any children?"

"No." She thought for a moment and gasped, "You don't—"

"What? Eat them?" he chuckled softly and shook his head. "No. Too gamey."

Belle sighed as the tension dropped from her face. She set her empty cup down and positioned her body to face his. "I didn't think you did, really."

He smiled and continued, "Most of the time when I…come to collect…the mother has discovered a new appreciation for that which she was willing to forfeit. Prior to my arrival, she has combed through every jot and tittle of our agreement, searching for any way to withhold her promised treasure."

"But your contracts are ironclad. Once a deal has been struck, nobody can break it."

He held up a finger to his lips, "I'll let you in on a secret."

She leaned in closer. He felt the warmth of her breath as it crossed the distance and washed upon his exposed neck. In this moment, he wanted to unburden his entire soul to her. However, he would satisfy himself by sharing what he believed was his most noble truth.

He pointed at her and instructed, "But, you must promise never to reveal it to another soul—living or dead. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"I always include in a loophole for firstborn children."

Belle leaned back, her eyes wide in disbelief. "No!"

He nodded once demurely. "All the mother has to do is call me by my name three times. It's all in the contract."

"But, everybody knows your name. You're infamous," she blanched and corrected herself, "famous."

"Yes. Most of the time, the mother has cleverly uncovered the loophole, and I walk away," he held up his palms, "empty handed." He smirked as he considered his own generosity.

Belle, however, still looked concerned. "And, if she isn't clever, doesn't find the loophole, you take the child?"

He felt a surge of panic rise in his gut. He answered defensively, "Those who are willing to barter with the life of their child do not deserve to be parents. They know what they do. As many as there are who are willing to sell their children, there are those who would give everything for the chance to have a child. So, yes, I take the babe, and I give it to a family who will love and cherish it and never allow anything—or anyone—to separate them."

Rumplestiltskin ended his noble speech quite out of breath. He remembered the devastation of his heart when he let Bae slip into another world. With shame, he had refused to relinquish his powers as the Dark One. Losing Bae was his penalty. From that moment, he had believed all who would squander their children deserved to feel the anguish of that pain, including him.

Belle murmured, "I don't like it. Loophole or no loophole: It's wrong."

"Don't you think the babe would be better off with someone who appreciates the value of a child?"

Belle considered carefully before answering, "Who are you to judge whether a parent and child should be separated before that love is tested?"

"_That_ love has already been tried and has failed, before the child's birth. Those unwilling to fight for what they love, deserve what they get," he echoed the painful words spoken to him long ago.

Bell said, "In life, we get a great many blessings we do not deserve. They make us want to be better, to be worthy of the gifts we are given. This world is filled with orphans who need loving homes. Why not help them find families instead of trading on the desperation of fools?" She spoke gently, "Why contract misery when you have the power to create love?"

Rumplestiltskin was without answer. His soul churned against itself, a mixture of sharp rocky crags and fire. He muttered, "What you must think of me."

He moved as if to stand and leave the room, but Belle placed a hand on his leg, stopping him. Her touch was like a gentle waterfall slowly smoothing the jagged rocks at the misty base. A cool peace permeated throughout his body from the source of that soothing pressure.

"No, don't go," she pleaded. "Stay. Let me tell you what I think. I think you love children. And, I think you want those who have forgotten how precious they are to remember, because you know the pain of that separation. You know what it is to lose a treasure."

He sucked in a ragged breath. She would not have seen his nod so slight was the movement.

"But, I also think your judgment is wrong—clouded by the evil darkness of your curse. I don't know if you can help that on your own."

At last, he found the courage to turn his head and chance a look into her eyes. They were deep, serene pools of sympathy. He answered softly, "That's why I have you."


	12. A Pretty Witch

Belle spun wool until the tips of her fingers grew thick with calluses. Very often, at the request of Rumplestiltskin, she neglected her usual duties, in favor of more time at the spinning wheel. She quickly realized the advantages of keeping house by magic. Whether accomplished by Belle's hand or the unseen forces of the Castle, the chores were never overlooked. While her hands measured dozens of yards of wool, the dust refused to settle on Rumple's collection, clothes folded themselves, and the floors were always swept clean.

When Belle became restless and felt the need to move about, she explored the castle grounds. Summer had arrived, and the earth sang its song in blooms of every color. Belle delighted to meander through the many gardens alone with her thoughts. Smelling the fragrant perfume of a thousand blossoms, she gratefully accepted an hour of tranquility.

Each day she ventured outside, a new discovery awaited her. First, she came across a fountain which resembled little stone fairies frolicking at the edge of a pond. Belle could not remember ever seeing it before. The next day, she found a garden path hedged in all around with every variety of rose she could name and many she could not. And then, there was the shaded gazebo where she spent a lovely, restful afternoon remembering the best parts of all her favorite books.

The day arrived when the all the wool had been spun. Belle cradled the skeins of yarn gently in her hands. Her first skein was worthless, but Rumple had said she should expect as much. The others, after being soaked and weighted to set the twist, had been given his subtle seal of approval. She remembered how far away his eyes looked as he handled the loose strands of yarn. His eyes were looking centuries behind the coiled loops of wool. He had muttered something which sounded like approval and dropped the yarn back on top of the basket.

With great excitement, Belle began to work secretly on the next step in her plan. One afternoon, while Rumple was out of the house on business, she stole up to his study. Her eager hands found the only book in his collection which she could read and dared to touch. She scanned the pages of the alchemy guide, learning everything necessary to make her plan a success. When she had gleaned all she could from its pages, she returned the book to its place, leaving the study as she had found it.

Now, her daily walks in the garden were more for scavenging than pleasure. Of the plants, flowers, and roots she could identify, she gathered as many as could be used for her scheme. Hoping to keep her stores hidden from Rumplestiltskin's quick eye, she stored her supplies in the darkest corner of the pantry. Once or twice she crossed his path unintentionally while scurrying to the kitchen. He had asked about the copious amounts of flowers in her basket.

"Well, what have we here?" he questioned with a twinkle in his eye. He gestured to the overstuffed basket, "Pruning the garden?"

Belle chewed her lip, "I thought I might put some fresh flowers in my room. Cheer things up a bit."

He grinned and answered, "Cheer up a dungeon with flowers? You'll want another basket."

Belle looked at him curiously. Either he knew nothing about the transformation of her room or refused to acknowledge his good deed. Without further comment, she passed by him and continued down the hall. She would let the matter drop for now.

Once she had collected enough, she processed the roots, washing, dicing, drying, and grinding the pulps until they yielded a fine powder. It would have been easier to do this sort of work in the study; however, the room lacked privacy. To her benefit, the kitchen was also stocked with pots, kettles, and mortars and pestles. All the necessary materials were at her fingertips. Now, she could work in solitude.

One afternoon, she prepared two pots of boiling water. In the first pot, she placed several cut up potatoes, carrots, onions, and a portion of roast. In the second, she added a mixture of alum, which was readily available amongst the pickling and canning supplies, and cream of tartar. After the second pot had cooled a little, she added more water and a generous portion of the root powder she had made last week. She was measuring out her ingredients when she heard the light, but confident step of boots on the stones just behind her.

"Bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble," sang the high-pitched gleeful voice of Rumplestiltskin with a laugh. He added, "What a charming little witch you are, dearie, standing over your cauldron."

She started and turned around quickly, holding her hands behind her back. She hoped he would not see the small tins of alum and cream of tartar. "Just working on a stew," she stammered.

He pointed at the two pots, "Are we expecting company?" She shook her head, and he eyed her warily.

Deceit had never been one of Belle's strong suits, and even the best liars could not fool Rumple for very long. With a quick movement, Belle hurried back to the counter, using it as a shield as she pocketed the metal tins. She chopped more carrots.

"I thought, since I don't have any more wool to spin, I might brush up on my cooking skills. Try a new recipe or two."

"Mmm," he hummed to himself as if testing the truth of her words.

She dipped a spoon into the stew pot and lifted it out, "Taste?"

He held up his hand and shook his head. "I'll wait." He sniffed the air, which Belle knew reeked of musty roots. "Add some rosemary," he resolutely suggested before turning on his heels and stepping out of the room.

Belle heaved a sigh of relief and checked the hallway to make sure she was alone. Rumple was headed up the stairs with a basketful of straw. Certain she would be left alone, Belle returned to the kitchen. She pulled the yarn out of the basket and began to submerge the loops into the second pot one by one with a long wooden spoon. As the stew in the first pot simmered, Belle rinsed the dyed yarn in vinegar and water then crept up to her chamber where she hung her woolen handiwork up to dry.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for all your wonderful reviews! I treasure each one.


	13. Catching Flies

The stillness of the morning was interrupted by the chiming of a grandfather clock in a distant hall upstairs. It was ten o'clock. Had the house always been so quiet? Rumplestiltskin had begun to feel the ostentatious castle too large. The rooms were filled with treasures and antiques; however, they did nothing to abate the emptiness which pervaded the house whenever Belle was not close by.

In the last week, Belle had become quiet and placating. Had she abandoned her unspoken mission of unearthing the broken shards of his soul? Rather than following him around, pestering him with painful questions, she devoted her time to whatever work was available. When unoccupied, she escaped to the gardens or some other hidden sanctuary. She was always tidying some dusty room or brewing up something in the kitchen. Some days he saw her so infrequently, it felt as if she wasn't in the house at all,.

He remembered the day it started—the day she had spun the last few strands of wool into a loose bundle of yarn. Golden shafts of afternoon sunlight poured through the large windows of the great room. Belle sat at the spinning wheel while he pretended to be engrossed in a battered ledger book. He watched her lean back and stretch her arms over her head, releasing the tension in her shoulders. He left his book and approached from the side to examine her work.

"What do you think?" she asked with hopeful expectation.

He examined the soft threads, realizing that he was looking at the end of more than just a length of yarn. Belle had learned how to spin and no longer needed his help, advice, or instruction. Of course, he doubted she would ever spin again anyway. It was simpler to buy yarn. She had no need for a weaver's income, and her curiosity was now satisfied. She would focus her interests on other pursuits which did not include him.

He mumbled, "Very well. It's done," and dropped the loose folds of yarn back into her basket. He turned away, ready to study his ledger in earnest this time.

Belle caught his attention with a polite cough. When he looked back, she leaned forward bowing her head slightly. She answered his curious look with a pleased smile.

"A deal's a deal," she said. When he made no movement, she encouraged, "Well, take your price. I trust you."

Teaching Belle how to spin had afforded him more pleasure than he had anticipated. So much so, in fact, that he had forgotten entirely about the terms of their agreement. For a moment, he considered forgiving her debt. However, he would not relinquish his only consolation prize.

With a cautious smile, he reached a hand up to her bowed head. The backs of his fingers brushed against her soft, loose curls. He sucked in his breath rapidly, unaware of the wonder which marked his face. His deft hands tugged at three hairs.

"Ow!" Belle squealed.

"Sorry," he apologized.

She waved her hand and rubbed the tender spot by her temple. "Don't worry about it."

Now, as he had predicted, he rarely encountered Belle aside from her token appearances serving his meals. Even then, the encounters were brief. Now, she dined with him only once a day, usually at dinner. Halfway through the meal, she would yawn and politely excuse herself. At lunch, she carried a small basket of food into the gardens. She always invited him to accompany her; however, he could tell by the look on her face she preferred to spend the time alone. In the morning, he heard her tiptoe down to the kitchen just before dawn. By the time he came to the table, the tray was waiting for him. "I've already eaten," she would comment flippantly, hurrying off to air the upper rooms.

Rumplestiltskin frowned. Belle was working too hard. No wonder she could hardly keep her eyes open during dinner. In the Dark Castle, most of the chores could take care of themselves. He hoped she knew he neither required nor expected such bone-wearying industry. Tonight at dinner, he would tell her as much.

When the clock struck 11, he went in search of her. It could not wait. Why not spare her the toil of the afternoon? He checked in all the usual places—the great room, the kitchen, his study, and the unused bedrooms. The house was in perfect order, but Belle was nowhere to be found. The gardens were empty. At last he decided to walk past her door. Perhaps she had taken ill from overexertion. The door was shut, but he could hear her humming softly to herself. He did not bother to disturb her by knocking on the door. He was glad she was resting from whatever unnecessary labor she had assigned herself. A twinge of guilt arose as he considered the poor amenities available for her comfort. He resolved to correct the situation. With resignation, he turned away from the dungeon and began the trek up to his study.

If she was content to keep her own company, he could manage to do the same. However, solitude had become foreign and unpleasant. Belle's absences, however brief, reminded him of what he had lost. He did not like to be left alone with his thoughts, especially those which Belle stirred up in him.

So, now, in the quiet of the house, he was reminded what it was to lose something precious. Once before, time had slipped away and irrevocably stolen what Rumplestiltskin had so desperately wanted to protect. Was it happening again? Only now, instead of stealing the years of the one he loved, the progression of time slowly erased whatever esteem Belle possessed for him. He knew it was inevitable, but he had hoped not so immediate.

The steady rhythm of galloping horse hooves came from outside. He stepped to the window and looked out to see a man on the back of a large brown stallion speeding towards the gate. Rumplestiltskin's grin widened. The iron doors swung open for the rider who did not slow. The property was protected by numerous enchantments, which only the most powerful magicians could penetrate. However, for the truly desperate, the gates would always open. He headed towards the front door with a prideful swagger to welcome his visitor.

"Lord Desmond, I bid you welcome to my humble abode," he called, offering a deep, if sardonic, bow.

Desmond, a tall, red-faced man with more hair on his chin than the top of his head, swung a long thick leg over the side of the horse. He hurried up the castle steps, abandoning his steed, and wringing his hands.

His deep voice boomed, filling the marble halls which he scanned with a familiar eye, "Rumplestiltskin, you've done well with the place."

"You left it in good hands, sire," Rumplestiltskin replied. He escorted the thickset man into the great room; however, Desmond stood as if his feet itched to run elsewhere.

"How fares Odenhad?" asked Rumplestiltskin with a knowing, yet obligatory, tone.

"You must forgive me if I put aside pretense and abandon courtesy," he answered. He removed his riding gloves, twisting them in his hands. "I've come here today in dire need of your assistance."

Rumplestiltskin nodded, smiling, as he dipped his head in false humility.

"A plague sweeps through the village. It began just within the last week, but already it has claimed 50 lives. For every death another four are lying ill—at death's door. Our healers, conjurors, and clerics are at a loss. Can you help us?"

Rumplestiltskin watched Desmond closely during his speech. His noble face was etched with worry lines. Dark circles had settled under his eyes. Though the material was rich and fine, Desmond was poorly attired. Judging by his withered collar and lint-covered jacket, Desmond was dressing himself without the careful scrutiny of his valet. The man was as desperate as they come. Rumplestiltskin interlaced his fingers with glee.

"Describe this plague," he directed.

Desmond ran a hand over his hairless head. He was too restless to sit. "It starts as any disease—with fatigue. Then, a fever followed by hallucinations. Eventually," he paused to swallow and compose himself, "they sweat" he paused again, unable to continue.

"Probably caused by the fever," Rumplestiltskin mused. He held his index finger to his lips in consideration. He added, "But that should not be beyond the abilities of your healers. Have you tried feverfew?"

"Blood, sir. They sweat drops of blood," Desmond interjected. Having regained the attention of Rumplestiltskin, he continued, "At first, it's as fine as the blush on a maid's cheek. Then droplets like a mist. But soon, there are hundreds of little rivers and," he cleared his throat, "Well, they don't last long after that."

"You've seen it, then?"

"My boy," he choked, "At dawn." He bowed his head, hiding his face with one hand, and turned away. Until he heard the choking sobs which caught in the man's throat, Rumplestiltskin was not certain the man was weeping. He remembered the day his own heart made those sounds. Unsure how to proceed, he did nothing and stood in silence.

Suddenly, Belle rushed in. She must have been cleaning in a nearby room because she was still carrying a feather duster in her hand. When she saw Lord Desmond overcome by emotion, Belle glanced at Rumplestiltskin with questioning eyes. Did she suppose he was the cause of these demonstrative histrionics? Rumplestiltskin slightly shook his head, denying her unspoken accusation. Her mouth softened, and she nodded. She left the duster on the table and walked over to Desmond. As she passed, she squeezed Rumplestiltskin's arm reassuringly.

Belle wrapped her left arm around Desmond's shoulders, took his hands, and guided him to the chair in front of the hearth. She poured him a cup of tea and knelt by his feet. Placing a hand on his knee, she offered soothing words of comfort in between the nobleman's gasping breaths.

"Can you tell me what's happened?" she asked in her typical, familiar fashion. Wasn't it obvious the man needed time to compose himself?

"My boy, my Lysander. He was ten years old."

Ever intuitive, Belle did not need to hear anything else. She placed a hand over Desmond's and hushed him, "Too young. I know."

Lord Desmond looked up and grabbed Belle's hands in both of his. "Stay far away from Odenhad. There's a plague—deadly. It's everywhere."

Belle sucked in a breath, "John and Anna—do you know them? The young couple at the crossroads just married this summer?"

Desmond nodded, "No house has gone untouched."

Tears welled in Belle's eyes as she bit the knuckles of her right hand. "No."

"If we don't do something soon, it will be the end of everyone in Odenhad," Desmond uttered. He turned a composed eye, full of grief, upon Rumplestiltskin. "Will you help us? We're desperate," he added.

Rumplestiltskin felt like an insect pinned to an examination table. Desmond and Belle stared at him, certain he could provide the hope which had forsaken the village. "I will," he pledged.

"Then name your price," came the low gravel-like response from the weary nobleman. "We agree, whatever the terms." Desmond had just sold his soul, and he knew it.

Rumplestiltskin bit the inside of his cheek, checking his rage. He had promised to help had he not? He glanced at Belle, his soul screaming at hers, _I said it was so! _Belle, still holding Desmond's hand, acknowledged his look but pleaded with her eyes. Pushing aside his anger, Rumplestiltskin hardened his face into stone. He gritted his teeth and uttered, "We'll discuss my fee later."

The despair etched on Desmond's face melted away as he nodded solemnly. He released Belle's hands and stood slowly. "How long—"

"Take me to them now," Rumplestiltskin replied. Before transporting to the village with Desmond, Rumplestiltskin said to Belle, "Remain here. I'll see to your—" he stammered on the word "friend" and corrected himself, "I'll see to John."

As the Dark One, Rumplestiltskin had cured many illnesses: boils which burst and left behind gaping wounds, violent emissions projecting from every orifice, and flesh which peeled away from the underlying tissue in sheets as large as parchment. But he had never seen the quiet hopelessness of men and women sitting by the sickbed of their loved ones, their eyes searching always for the small droplets of blood, indicating imminent death.

Many of the ill had been taken to the tavern, which had been converted into an infirmary. Those touched by the disease were placed in beds and on cots. When the cots had been filled, the ill had laid their bedrolls out on the floor. As word spread that a healer had come, voices called from every corner, pleading for help.

He worked for hours, touching every outstretched hand, healing as many people as he could. Some who were in the midst of their fever-induced hallucinations shrieked at the sight of him, calling him a demon. Others were so far gone they thought an angel made entirely of light visited their dreams. Before Rumplestiltskin could reach them, the two voices fell into eternal silence.

He wandered through the village, healing the sick, until the clock tower struck three. Suddenly, he thought of Belle, worrying over the poor farmer at the furthest edge of the village. Before he returned home, he would visit the cottage.

Lord Desmond stood in his library furnished with deep red carpets, white granite pillars, and mahogany shelves. He stared into the fireplace with his arms crossed over his chest. Though he no longer carried the burden of an entire village, he struggled under the oppressive weight of grief and the loss of his only son. Help had not arrived in time to prevent his suffering. His house seemed as unnaturally quiet as Rumplestiltskin's.

"It will take time for the ill to recover their strength, but recover they will," Rumplestiltskin said. It was as close to comfort as he could offer.

"Are we rid of it then?"

Rumplestiltskin handed Lord Desmond a slip of paper. "Give this to your healer. The potion will cure the disease should it resurface."

A small, light voice came from the door, "The carriage is ready, Papa."

Rumplestiltskin turned to see a slim, fair-haired maiden of no more than sixteen. Her large, brown eyes were wet with the many tears she had shed. She scornfully eyed Rumplestiltskin's fierce leather coat and high stiff collar.

She added, "Whenever our _guest_ is ready to make his journey home." The words stuck in her throat with bitterness.

"I've no need of a carriage, dearie," he retorted. "There are faster ways to travel."

Desmond acknowledged his daughter with a nod. "See that the horses are returned to the stables, Florine." The obstinate girl did not move. To Rumplestiltskin Desmond said, "Shall we discuss your fee? We cannot thank you enough."

"I didn't bargain for your thanks," he said with a sneer.

"Of course not. Name your price," Desmond answered gravely.

Rumplestiltskin, unaffected by the emotion of the nobleman and his daughter, gave a lithe chuckle. If they demanded to compensate him for services rendered, he was happy to gratify the request. Help he gave freely. However, Desmond would find the cost of service very high indeed. Desmond was offering Odendhad on a silver platter.

_I've never owned a village before_, Rumplestiltskin thought to himself. He was just about to demand as much when a small black fly buzzed past his nose. He followed the fly as it swooped around the room, eventually circling Desmond's young daughter. She batted it away without alarm.

What was that at her neck? A small pearl pendant on a delicate gold chain. Fleetingly, he thought of honey before exclaiming with a point, "That little bauble round your daughter's neck, Desmond."

Florine clutched at the delicate chain. "No, this was my birthday present! Oh, you're not serious? Papa, really?" She rushed into the room and grabbed her father's hands.

Desmond looked at Rumplestiltskin, his eyebrows raised in a plea. "Surely, you want something else. This," he gestured to the necklace, "is a mere trifle."

Rumplestiltskin narrowed his eyes and exclaimed, "If you prefer, I'll accept the deeds to every home, business, and farm in the village."

Florine stuck out her lower lip in a childish pout. She unclasped the chain and threw it on the carpet crying, "Wretch!"

As she marched out of the room, Rumplestiltskin called after her, "Not to worry, dearie. You're just as lovely without the jewels." He laughed in such a way to make her question whether he meant it as a compliment. With a flourish, he stooped to pick up the discarded necklace.

Desmond set his mouth in a hard line. "Forgive her. She's carries herself as a woman, but remains a child in many ways. The only child I have left."

An awkward silence followed. Desmond was waiting for some sort of consolation. However, Rumplestiltskin was neither equipped nor inclined to offer such alleviation.

Passing a hand under his eye, Desmond sighed deeply. He said, "You're sure you want nothing else? It seems a very small reward."

Rumplestiltskin examined the chain and pendant before slipping it into his pocket. He glared silently at Desmond, daring him to repeat his request and his insult.

Desmond nodded solemnly and said, "I'll see you out." He led the way to the front door in silence.

Rumplestiltskin squinted as he stepped into the bright afternoon sunlight. As his vision returned, Rumplestiltskin sucked in a quick breath. The market square was filled, mostly with children and youths. Some of the boys stood in small groups laughing. Many of the girls were barefoot and all had woven crowns of flowers into their hair. The music from a single violinist filtered up from the village square just outside the manor. The tune was light, but not overtly cheerful out of respect for the dead. As the music continued, the girls formed a circle and began to dance. The boys, encouraged by their sisters and sweethearts, joined quickly. Their lively feet moved in rhythm to the music and did not stop for the longest time.

Lord Desmond placed a steady hand on Rumplestiltskin's back. The wearied nobleman spoke in low, quiet tones as he looked on at the scene before him, "The children dance because of you."

Rumplestiltskin paused only long enough to scan the village square one last time before he vanished. Moments later, he reappeared at the crossroads near John's small farm. His hard eyes gazed steadfastly ahead as he passed by the rows of furrowed earth. Tender green shoots were sprouting up from the ground. He entered the small cottage without knocking. A small, stout blonde began to scream.

Without delicacy, he blasted her with an immobilization spell. Within the hour she would return, unharmed, to her natural state. Approaching the bed, he saw the young farmer who had reluctantly entered into a contract at the end of spring. John lay in bed, half asleep, his cheeks mottled with blood. With all the emotion of a tailor stitching a hem, Rumplestiltskin passed his hands over John's body, healing him with his dark powers. As a precaution, he passed a hand over the frozen frame of the woman, just in case. Her brown eyes were large with fear. She had, no doubt, been told all about the imp on the hill.

* * *

**A/N: **Did you know? Florine is a lesser-known fairy tale character who loses her jewels.


	14. With Honey

Rumplestiltskin appeared in his study. He removed his coat quickly and hung it on a slender stand in the corner before selecting a random book off one of the many shelves. He bounded down the spiral staircase with a hurried step, eager to find Belle and see that look in her eye—the one that made him feel less like a monster and better than a man. There was a warm glow in the pit of his stomach as he searched the house. The urge to find her warred against the pride of his ego, and he made a conscious effort to slow his steps. Ideally, they would meet on the stairs, and it would appear as if he were on his way to find some comfortable spot to turn over the pages of his book.

First, he headed to the great room. The stool in front of the spindle was empty. The basket of straw sat unmoved next to the gold thread which he had woven idly in the earliest morning hours. Her cloak was not in its usual place draped over the back of his chair at the table. A small wicker basket without a handle caught his attention. It was one of his own; however, he hardly recognized it. He examined the artful arrangement of gold and wine-colored ribbon which bordered the rim.

For a moment, he was vexed beyond comprehension. The muscles in his jaw contracted, refusing to release his grimace. Under the assumption that he would be out all day, the girl was taking her first opportunity to steal from him. He stepped over to the basket and threw back the thin cotton cloth which covered the contents fiercely. His breath came out slowly as he saw the contents nestled securely within the lined basket. Afraid his knees might give out, he rested on the table as Belle had so often been inclined to do.

He uttered one small, subdued laugh as he held the deep burgundy scarf in his hands, caressing the material. Somehow, she had managed to weave that rough carpet wool into a fine soft yarn. It was such a little thing—a simple scarf. And then again, it wasn't. He thought of the time and effort it had taken. Cleaning, carding, and spinning. She had insisted on doing it all. How long had it taken to collect the plants to dye the wool? How many nights had she stayed up, weaving the threads together in secret? Now he understood her frequent absences. Rumplestiltskin counted every hour it must have taken. Every hour she had spent thinking only of him.

A small yellow card lay beside the basket. It must have been placed within the top folds of the scarf. He had been so sure of her treachery he had cast it off without noticing. He picked up the card and read it. In her simple understated feminine hand was written "Love Belle."

Of all the objects in his house, there were only three which mattered to him: the dagger, her chipped teacup, and a crumbling shawl. Now, there were four. All were gifts from those who had changed his existence forever before storming out of his life. Where was she? Panic seized him, and he risked looking like a fool.

"Belle?" he called. Again with more urgency he shouted, "Belle!" There was no answer.

He ran to the window, searching for any trace of her on the road. She couldn't have gotten very far on foot. His eyes scanned the long winding path beyond the castle walls but found no glimpse of her gently bobbing green cloak.

An idea flashed into his mind, "The gardens," he mumbled to himself. He left the basket on the table and headed toward the passage that opened into the vast gardens on the west side of the manor. The scarf remained in his hand.

A chill breeze blew against his face as he stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. The punctuated tap of his boot heel on the cobbled stones accelerated as he searched the garden paths. He rounded a corner of rose hedges, and the tension dropped from his frame. Belle was sitting calmly on a gray stone bench with her eyes closed. Three pale pink roses were lay by her side. She stirred at the sound of his step and opened her eyes. As truly as the early evening sun illuminated her face, he knew, with his back to the sun, his face was cast in shadow. Could the dark ever touch the light?

"You're back," she smiled.

"Just now." He waved to the house.

"The village? John and Anna?"

He held up a hand, "Fine. I was looking for you."

She moved the roses and patted the bench, motioning for him to sit down. "I wanted to cut a few roses. By the time I came out here..." she trailed off.

"You've been working too hard," he offered gently.

"I only intended to rest for a moment, but I suppose I fell asleep."

"Ah, I see," he answered. Holding the scarf, he sat rigidly with his hands in his lap. Belle's hands reached for his. He held his breath, but released it when she lightly stroked the knitted wool.

"You found it?" she asked.

With some difficulty, he fought to keep a pleasantly composed smile on his face. It was best not to show his relief at finding her in the garden. "I did."

"And?" she looked at him hopefully. "What do you think? Do like it?"

He was relieved the questions were so easy, her expectations so small. He was afraid she thought her simple, though thoughtful, gesture would strip him of his beastly hide. She would have had to work a powerful enchantment for that to happen. As it was, he was able to answer honestly without breaking the gaze of her deep blue eyes, "It's beautiful."

The words came softer and with more tenderness than he had anticipated. Those words led to another urge: a desire to reciprocate. How many bargains had they unwittingly made with each other? The account grew more complicated every day. He was losing track of exactly who was indebted to whom.

Belle smiled weakly. Her skin was very white, yet she was blushing with pleasure.

"I'm no sorceress, but," she said gently taking the scarf from his hands. She doubled it over, draped it around his neck, and pulled the ends through the loop. As she did so, she said, "It does so happen that this is an enchanted scarf."

His heart seized within his chest. "What?" he stammered.

"Mmhmm," she nodded, arranging the fabric so that it covered the exposed flesh of his neck and chest. "Whenever you wear this and think of me, you'll never feel the cold." She patted both of his shoulders.

Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes and counted the hours again. He envisioned Belle rocking with the motion of the spinning wheel. He heard Belle humming softly to herself as she knitted the strands of yarn. For him. The wind blew, but he did not feel it.

He cleared his throat; however, the words came out small and faint, "As it happens, I've something for you as well."

Belle sat up straight for a moment before resuming her slouched posture. "For me?"

Reaching into the pocket of his vest, he pulled out the thin gold chain. The last rays of the afternoon glinted off the small iridescent pearl. Belle's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes began to water.

"How did you find it?" she asked tearfully.

At a loss for words, and giving no thought to the usual reserved composure with which he conducted himself, he said, "It found me."

Belle swept her long hair to one side and leaned forward, inviting him to fasten the necklace around her neck. Ever since becoming the Dark One, he had been gifted with supernatural agility and dexterity. Now, for the first time in nearly three centuries, he felt clumsy and awkward as he struggled to undo the tiny golden clasp. Belle smiled and held out her hand. Rumplestiltskin slowly lowered the gold chain into her hands with resignation. He could see little calluses on her fingertips, the mark of her labor which had produced the gift which he now wore round his neck.

She held the chain up and watched the small pearl swing back and forth in the sunlight. She let it rest in the palm of her hand, testing the weight. Then, she quickly slipped it round her neck, allowing it to settle into its old position. Rumplestiltskin nodded. Yes, that which was missing had been restored.

Suddenly, her arms were encircling his body. To his surprise, his arms had opened to accept her embrace. As she pressed against him, the warm glow in the pit of his stomach exploded into a thousand tiny suns. He would feel the imprint of every fingertip on his back for hours. Her lovely scent would fill his mind for days. His dreams would be forever haunted by the softness of her hair brushing against his cheek. He closed his eyes, engraving this moment on his memory.

"Thank you," she wept, still clasping him tightly.

Belle relaxed again into the back of the bench. Her eyelids were heavy.

Rumplestiltskin wrinkled his brow, "Belle, you're tired. We should go inside."

She nodded in agreement. When he saw how slowly she moved, he held out his arm, "If you need it," he offered nervously. Despite his growing concern, he was pleased when she slipped her arm through his. When she began to lean on him heavily, he repositioned himself so that he was carrying the better part of her light frame. Beads of sweat were forming on her brow. She did not look good. Suddenly, she collapsed, and his arm was the only thing keeping her from falling onto the stone path.

"Belle!" he cried.

"Oh," she swooned. She attempted to take another step, but her footing faltered.

Without another word, Rumplestiltskin lifted her off the ground and carried her in his arms. As he cradled her in his arms, he felt simultaneously invincible and weak. She tried to place her arms around his shoulders, but she was too exhausted to hold on. He could feel the moisture from her forehead against his cheek.

"You're not well," he stated firmly. He recognized the symptoms of the plague which had nearly destroyed Odenhad.

"I'm sorry," she apologized.

"Don't be," he answered. If anyone was going to be sorry, it was Lord Desmond. "Let's get you inside."

Leaving the gardens, he headed toward of Belle's room. Her condition was worsening. Her forehead was burning hot; he feared to believe the worst. As he approached her door, she murmured something softly.

He pushed the door open gently with his foot and said, "What was that, dear?"

"My room," she whispered over and over again.

He looked around and realized her room no longer resembled a dungeon, but a lady's chamber. He didn't know how it had happened, but he was glad it had. She would be comfortable here. He would wonder at the transformation later. For now, Belle was all that mattered.

"Yes, it's lovely," he whispered.

With as much tenderness as he could, he set Belle down in a little chair.

"Oh, only for a moment, I promise" he said when he heard her groan.

He quickly removed the scarf and his outer vest. He turned down her bed coverings and lit a fire in the fireplace. With his back towards her, he waved his hand, exchanging her dress for a modest white nightgown. With little effort, he lifted her again and gently laid her down in bed.

With his face just inches from hers, he could barely hear her whisper, "The castle wanted me to come back."

Had the hallucinations begun? Without knowing what to say he answered in a choked voice, "It did."

Wanting to fetch a cool cloth, he began to rise but stopped when Belle laid a hand on exposed skin of his chest. Her touch was hot from the fever.

"The castle loves me," she said, her eyes brimming with tears. Her breath rushed upon his face, awakening nerve endings that had been dormant too long.

"Yes, it does," Rumplestiltskin gasped.

Her white hand moved from his chest and gently stroked his cheek, "So handsome," she mumbled before losing consciousness.

"Belle?" he asked softly. There was no response. "Belle?" he asked again shaking her tenderly. She stirred, but refused to open her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. He came closer to her than he ever had before, save once, and peered at her face with his large, unsearchable eyes. This was no fever blush. Her skin was dotted with thousands of tiny red flecks.

For a moment, he sat still in shock. He could lose her forever to a place where no magic, fairy or dark, could ever retrieve her. She would plunge ahead into eternity—a place he could never enter. It could not happen again. At last, he remembered his powers. He administered his healing gifts, passing his hand over the length of her body.

In Odenhad, he had not lingered at any bedside but traveled quickly from cot to cot. Certain of his abilities, he had not waited to confirm the promised result. What if he could not heal this plague? What if the magic had only delayed death?

He watched one minute, two, and three before she groaned softly. In a rush of movement, he picked up one of her hands in both of his and clutched it to his chest. "What is it, Belle?"

She made no answer except to continue to groan softly. The pink flush remained on her cheek. Letting go of her hand, he hurried over to the table and poured a little water from the ewer into the bowl. He soaked a cloth and wiped her forehead gently. The whiteness of the cloth was marred by a soft pink stain. Rumplestiltskin leaned in close, close enough to feel Belle's ragged breath, and watched her struggle to rest. Her head turned this way and that way, though her eyes remained closed. It was as if she could not find a comfortable position.

Rumplestiltskin's hand shook as he slowly reached out to touch her cheek. He had meant only to feel if the fever had broken. But when he ran the back of his hand down the smooth apple of her cheek, she sighed so softly that he dared to touch her again. And so, for most of the night he sat, perched beside her on the bed, stroking her hair, her brow, her cheek. His breath calmed only when he was certain that her natural color had returned. She would recover. He stopped his gentle caress when her breathing slowed into the steady pattern of deep sleep.

He looked down at his hands and back to Belle's peaceful face. He spoke one word into the night: "Magic."

Like bolt of lightning, an idea surged through his brain. Just before dawn, Rumplestiltskin hurried up the spiral staircase to his study. For what seemed an eternity, he stared at the only empty glass vial on his shelf. With trembling hands he picked up the fragile little bottle.

From a small leather pouch, he produced a single strand of auburn hair. He plucked one of his own dark wavy strands from his head. He wound the two together before placing them in the small jar. He capped the bottle and held it up in for examination. With a phosphorescent flash, the potion—and his collection—were complete.

"I've done it," he whispered into the diminishing darkness.

* * *

**A/N: **Please review! Thank you!


	15. Old Magic

Belle was awake long before she opened her eyes. It was pleasant to lie in bed and ignore the sun's insistence that she follow its example and rise. When she did open her eyes, it was because she heard the quiet tinkling of china on silver as her door opened. Rumplestiltskin sheepishly entered the room with a tea tray. She felt an unexpected giddy nervousness in his presence.

Her memory from yesterday was fragmented. She remembered talking in the garden and her knees buckling as she returned to the house. However, she had only snippets of the rest of the evening. Arms holding her securely. Slipping between the soft sheets of her bed. A soft voice which comforted her soul. Belle blushed deeply as she recalled the tender stroke of a hand on her brow, lulling her to sleep. She closed her eyes, afraid to look into his face, hoping that he would leave the room.

"Tea and toast, dearie," he called out as he placed the tray on her bedside table. "It's no use pretending," he tapped his temple, "Second sight."

She pushed herself up a little and stifled a smile when Rumplestiltskin arranged her pillows so she was propped up comfortably.

"I really don't think I could eat a thing," she said, glancing at the tray. It was true; she had no appetite.

He smiled and took a seat on the edge bed. "Well, that is excellent news. Because, ah, this is _my_ breakfast. I was the one up all night playing nursemaid, after all."

Belle rolled her eyes and turned an even deeper shade of red. She hadn't dreamed it then.

"But if you're interested," he gestured at the tray he had placed over her legs, "I'd be happy to share."

Belle eyed the tray piled with cups of steaming hot tea and a tidy stack of toast smeared with butter. She sucked in air through her teeth and held her index finger and thumb slight apart to indicate, "Maybe a little?"

He gave a little laugh and shouted, "Deal!" As he handed her a cup and a plate with a small piece of toast he said, "I remember once when Baelfire was young, he had been ill, and tea and toast was just the thing to help him find his appetite again."

"Baelfire?" she asked. She immediately regretted her question when she saw how far away and dim Rumplestiltskin's eyes grew. Before he said it, Belle knew who the name belonged to. Perhaps he had not meant to speak the name aloud.

However, Rumplestiltskin surprised her by answering, "My son, Baelfire."

"Your son," Belle echoed. Every time she had broached the subject with him he had avoided it or answered vaguely. She knew the memories associated with his son brought him much pain. Longing to change the subject, but at a loss for words, she took a large bite of toast to buy some time. It was unnecessary, Rumplestiltskin began.

"Yes." He smiled at a distant memory. "He was ten at the time. His mother had just—" he trailed off and began again, "well, it was just the two of us. A sickness passed through the village—one of those seasonal plagues that comes and goes with the rains. That year it was particularly bad. Several of the children died; Bae was almost one of them. But," he gestured to the tray, "tea and toast worked like magic. Before I knew it, he was back on his feet, throwing stones at the birds in the yard."

Belle took another bite of toast; it was half gone. She hadn't eaten anything since breakfast the previous morning. "It's good magic," she smiled.

"Its old magic," he answered. He added conspiratorially, "The best kind." He placed a finger over his lips to indicate this trade secret was not to be shared.

She picked at the rest of her toast. As quickly as it had come, the desire to eat had disappeared. "So, Baelfire—that's unusual. Is it a family name?"

"No," he answered. "The day of his birth lightning struck a field near our home. The summer was dry, and the flames consumed the field instantly. Bael is 'great' hence Bael-fire. But, most of the time we just called him 'Bae.'"

"I had a little brother—Ansel. He went by 'Annie,'" she laughed.

Rumplestiltskin grimaced, "Who started that?"

Belle bit her lower lip. "Me," she confessed with shame.

He clicked his tongue in rebuke and shook a finger at her. "Names are important, dearie. It all starts with a name. Everyone forgets that."

"It's just a name—a nickname really." She gave a short yawn and sank back into the pillows. Her strength had not fully returned.

"Names follow you wherever you go. They give you power."

She tossed him an unbelieving look.

"Ever meet someone who knows your name before you know theirs?"

She nodded.

"You felt vulnerable, didn't you? Just in that moment before they held out their hand and introduced themselves."

"Yes," she whispered.

"You felt that way because when you know someone's name you can know anything about them—all their darkest secrets. I can ask for help or make a threat. People listen when you use their name."

Belle answered, "I never thought of it that way."

He tossed his head, "Most people don't. That is, until they've met me." He gestured to himself. "Sign one of my contracts; you'll not likely take the power of a name for granted again."

Belle set her empty tea cup down on the tray. She disliked the dark turn the conversation was taking. He was so proud of his ability to make people squirm under the press of his thumb. If only his cunning could be directed towards a good cause. She leaned back into the pillows and let her eyes close for just a moment.

"Whatever happened to 'Annie'?" he asked, breaking the silence.

She sat up again and answered, "Well, for one, he grew out of the name Annie. Shortly before my father called on you, he joined the ranks of the resistance. And, like so many of our village's young men, perished on the battle field. He was just 16."

Rumplestiltskin's face fell as he heard Belle's story. He folded his hands in his lap and hung his head in shame, "Your brother was a hero."

She covered his hands with one of hers, silently absolving him of his cowardice. "He was foolhardy. When he left, I begged him to wait. Our intelligence said the ogres were unstoppable. Fodder before the fire—that's all he'd be. That's all he was."

Rumplestiltskin nodded his head, "Bae wanted to join the fight, too. He couldn't wait to turn 14 and enlist. He was braver than I ever was."

"Is that what happened to him? He died in the war?"

"No." He sighed heavily, once, twice, and cleared his throat. "No, he's gone because of me." He continued when he saw Belle crinkle her brow. She did not remove her hand which still covered his. The warmth was comforting.

"I became the Dark One to save our village—to save Bae—from the ogres. I changed. He wanted his father back, and I could not give him that. I couldn't be the man I was before."

"You were cursed."

"I was _changed_. I'm not altogether certain that even if the curse is lifted I will ever be the man I once was. A person moves forward, but going back that's an impossible magic. He left this land, this world, for another. We were supposed to go together, but he left alone because of me."

Belle squeezed his hand gently, "And there's no way you can find him now?"

Rumplestiltskin was silent for a long time. Belle could see he was choosing his words with care. "There is. A Dark Curse."

Belle started. A cold hand had grabbed her spine as she remembered the White Lady's warning. He'd never spoken of it to her before. "What would happen? If the Dark Curse was cast?"

"One world would slip into the next, never to be recovered. Every good thing this world knows would be lost—forgotten for all eternity. It would be the end of happiness."

"But you would find your son?"

He raised his eyebrows and considered. "I don't know. Probably not. He passed into that world, a land without magic, centuries ago. He and his children's children have long since perished."

"Then you have no reason to use the curse. You should destroy it so it never falls into the wrong hands."

"The dark magic of the curse is strong. It took centuries to create. What magic could undo such power?"

She squeezed his hand again and answered, "The same magic that can break any curse."

Her stomach fluttered as he turned his hand around and interlaced his fingers with hers. His hand was warm though the skin was rough. "Old magic," he whispered.

"The best magic," she replied.

* * *

**A/N: **No apologies offered or required for shameless Rumbelling. ;-)


	16. To Break a Curse

Rumplestiltskin followed Belle's recovery with a watchful eye. After two days of sitting in bed, she finally came down to rest in the great room. Her shoulders were wrapped in a pale green shawl she had brought from her room. It was the shade of a new spring leaf. Her feet were bare, and the hem of her cream colored skirt dragged on the stone floor. She didn't seem to mind. Her eyes lit up when she spotted the deep brown leather sofa in front of the fire. He had added it to the single armchair expressly for her benefit. Her fingertips lingered on the cover of a book he had left on a small end table between the sofa and chair.

"This is one of my favorites," she murmured. She reclined on the couch, content with her book for hours on end. At times he would join her, sitting at a safe distance in the chair. Other times, he would sit in front of the spinning wheel, spinning straw into gold. However, he could not always be near her as he wished. Often, business called him out in the afternoons and evenings.

There was much unrest in the Enchanted Forest. The royal families were nearly on the brink of battle. It happened once a generation when the royal brats grew to a marriageable age. Broken hearts led to broken dynasties. He'd come to expect it. It was excellent for business. The royal treasuries held more than just gold. However, he was growing weary of maintaining the fine balance between shrewd business deals and appeasing royal tempers. A single mistake and he risked a crusade. He hated wars. They were distasteful things. People should only be killed for their own stupidity not that of some velvet-clad dolt with a crown who couldn't marry his true love.

This time around, however, he found he was practically giving his services away for free. Whatever possessed him to trade a regret-me-not potion for a worthless strand of Snow White's scraggly hair? The little Cinder girl had requested a meeting to renegotiate the terms of her agreement. He had planned to go, but was unwilling to leave Belle. Instead, he sent a message advising her to read the terms of her contact carefully. He promised to take Belle's advice concerning the trade of children. However, it had less to do with ethics and more with avoiding the inevitable complications. The nasty rivalry between Regina and the princess grew more heated every day. It would come to a head soon; however, he decided he would step back and let matters play out as they would.

He stole a furtive glance at Belle, who was watching the rain drops slide down the window pane. She was ruining business. These days he caught all his flies with honey. His contracts gave him such a small advantage that he had to exaggerate his usual impish mania in order to keep up appearances. He could not have his reputation sullied by rumors of charity.

What was it Belle saw when she gazed at him with those crystal blue eyes or smiled with those holly berry lips? Was his appearance so greatly altered? Belle was always stealing glances when she thought he wouldn't notice. Her enduring affection was a mystery. He'd told her about leaving the battlefield and about abandoning Bae. She knew he killed at the slightest provocation. And yet, she looked at him as if he were something precious instead of a monster.

Her love was blind and foolish, but it was formidable. The worst part was he could no longer pretend her affection didn't make his spirit soar. Her love washed over him, filling in the gaps of his cracked soul. She was the most precious creature in the world. He did not deserve her. He was irredeemable. His greatest fear was that she would realize what he was, and that once again he would destroy the only love within his grasp.

A book lightly smacked the top of his head.

"Stop it," Belle said. She had abandoned her place by the window to stand behind him at the spinning wheel.

He started when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her fingertips trailing along his collar bone. She whispered into his ear, "Whatever you're thinking about isn't worth thinking at all."

The shawl was wrapped around her arms, and, for a moment while she spoke, they were wrapped together in a single bolt of fabric. She smelled of roses and the musty pages of her book. The warmth of her body seeped into his. He closed his eyes, holding onto the sensation though she quickly stood up and patted his shoulder.

Belle deposited herself into a nearby chair and propped her feet up on the edge of the platform. She sighed contentedly and watched him work the wheel.

"Belle, what did you mean when you said, 'The house wanted me to come back?'"

"I said what?" she asked with confusion.

"When you were ill, you said, 'The castle loves me. The castle wanted me to come back.' What did you mean?"

Belle clasped the book she was holding in her hands to her chest. "Hmm, I don't really know. I don't remember a lot from that night. But I think maybe I was talking about my room."

"The dungeon?"

"My room," she corrected with a shake of her head.

"I noticed the…alterations."

"Ever since I came back, anything I wanted has appeared. I asked for a lock; I got one. I asked for a bath; it was there. I tried to thank you, but you acted as if you didn't know. I just figured the enchanted house liked having me around."

"Belle, the Dark Castle isn't enchanted—not like that. I made a deal with…someone…who couldn't keep his end of the bargain. It's just bricks and mortar, nothing more."

"But, you said you didn't need a caretaker because the house runs on magic."

"Yes, _my_ magic."

She beamed, "Then it was you." Her face suddenly clouded, "Were you spying on me?" she accused.

Rumplestiltskin held up his hands defensively. "I had nothing to do with it. Perhaps, you've brought a bit of magic with you after all, dear."

Belle sat perplexed for several moments. She appeared to test the weight of his words.

He began to turn the wheel again. Rumplestiltskin asked casually, "Would you ever consider becoming my apprentice? More than once I've sensed a great power within you."

"No," she answered frankly.

"The dark arts don't strike your fancy? A pity. I could teach you a thing or two. If you were interested, we get on so well, you know. There are whole worlds out there we could discover together."

Belle paused to formulate her response. "My whole life all I wanted was to explore the world. But, I can't—not as your apprentice. I'm not interested in learning potions or spells or collecting fairy dust. I'm not against magic, at least, I don't think so. But, sometimes it all feels so…so" she struggled to find the right words, "manufactured. It's not natural."

"I see," he said quietly.

"Don't take it personally," she offered. "If there was a way to study magic—to harness magic—the way we were meant to without assistance from talismans that would be different. That would be true magic."

Rumplestiltskin shook his head, "You don't understand how magic works. We wield the magic; you want to make it. It can't be done. Not even the fairies can do that. Even they have to drag the magic out of the mountain and grind it into fairy dust."

"Exactly! That's what I mean, without fairy dust they're just bugs. Really nosy bugs."

***Belle***

Rumplestiltskin laughed louder than she had ever heard him laugh before. Belle colored and grew indignant. She may not know anything about magic, but she was entitled to her opinion.

She continued, "You're laughing, but I mean it. Everyone in this realm who practices magic has an object. A wand, a staff, a crystal ball, or something. I wouldn't want to be dependent on an object to access magic."

"It channels their power."

"It _is_ their power. Destroy the object, you destroy them." She added, "Or, control them at least."

Suddenly, a chill wind blew through the room. Belle, who had been glancing absently at all the odd collectibles in the locked cabinet, turned her eyes upon Rumplestiltskin. He had frozen absolutely still, but his eyes were wild and his lips curled up in an evil sneer.

She shivered when he spoke the familiar words, "Who told you that?"

She searched desperately for the right words which would assuage his anger. Nothing she said ever made any difference once his fury was unleashed. She stammered and hoped against hope the past would not repeat itself.

"Nobody. It just makes sense. What's a fairy godmother without her wand?"

His shoulders dropped, and he seemed to shake off the tension that had exploded in the room. His mouth was fixed in a thin, grim line, but he answered coolly, "How intuitive you are. For someone who has never studied magic, you have touched upon the greatest fear of every witch, wizard, and fairy."

"And you. Do you have something like that?"

His eyes darted up to meet hers. The fire was there, but it was kept in check. He answered stiffly, "Yes," then he softened. "A blade—nothing more than a dagger, really."

"Oh," she answered as if disinterested.

Belle knew Rumplestiltskin's walls were in jeopardy of going up and never coming down. Without realizing it, she had threatened the security of his power. He did not need to tell her that no mortal knew of the blade's existence. Once again, her curiosity had pushed her out onto dangerous ground.

Belle sat motionless in the chair, pushing the cuticles of her fingernails back. She was not afraid provoking of his anger. However, she wished to spare him the pain and regret of another outburst.

She was surprised when he sat on the edge of the platform and offered, "Would you like to see it?"

Belle looked up at him with doubt in her eyes, "Are you sure?"

He nodded. He reached inside his vest pocket and removed a slender steel dagger with a black hilt. The flat edge of the blade was etched with elaborate scrollwork. He held the knife out to Belle so that the light glinted off of it.

"Read it," he said. He added, "Out loud."

Belle shook her head slightly, "What will happen?"

She was afraid to touch it. This blade was the source of his power. It was the source of his darkness. She wanted nothing to do with that.

"Trust me," he said calmly.

Carefully, Belle reached out and took the blade. She ran her hand over the letters which she spoke aloud, "Rumplestiltskin." He sighed softly at the sound of his name on her lips. "What?"

"As long as you hold that blade, I am under your command. Pierce my heart and you end my curse and take all my power." His countenance was lightened, as if a great burden were about to be lifted.

Belle pushed the blade back into his hands, "Is that how you became the Dark One? By piercing the heart of the one who came before you?"

She didn't give him a chance to respond; she knew it was true. "No, I don't want it. I don't want to command you. I want you to choose to be free."

"I would be free. You could free me. All that power you could use for good."

"Power from a dark, twisted blade? What good would come from that?"

"You could heal any wound, any illness. You could defeat any enemy. Save thousands of lives."

She shook her head, "At what cost? My heart, my soul? Yours? There are better ways to save the world. And there are better ways," she placed a hand on his cheek, "to break a curse."


	17. The First Heartbeat

Rumplestiltskin sat alone on the sofa in the great room, deep in thought. Belle had gone upstairs to change before dinner; however, she must have fallen asleep because she had not returned. She tired easily, and he doubted she would rise again before dawn. The sun set nearly an hour ago. The shadows crept from the corners of the room, slowly consuming all light. They were held back only by the flickering firelight of the hearth.

With a sigh, Rumplestiltskin stood up and walked to the cupboard at the end of the room. He opened the paneled glass door and pulled out a small wooden flute. As he returned to his seat by the fire, he tested the weight of it in his hands. How many years had it been since he had even looked at the slender pipe? There was nothing particularly fascinating about the smooth dark wooden instrument. Of course, like many of the objects in the Dark Castle, it was anything but ordinary. In its time, the flute had been used to achieve great good and great evil. However, that had little to do with the music it produced and everything to do with the musician who wielded its power.

He placed his lips on the mouthpiece and blew a tentative note. It died like a spark failing to ignite the tinder. With more courage, he blew on the pipe a second time, placing his fingers strategically over the holes. Now, the pitch filled the room, surrounding him. His hands remembered their former skill. The music began to weave its magic like arms wrapping around his psyche. Pleased that the magic worked so quickly, he played on.

The tune was not his own. It resonated off faded memories. The music flowed into itself, melody into melody, theme into theme. At times it was mournful and lonely like an empty hill and at others it was hopeful like the dawn creeping over the frozen mountain peaks. It was a shepherd's song. As the notes surrounded him, flowing into him, he began to remember those images which he had once pushed away for the pain they rendered. Now, he revisited those memories, and his sorrow was turned to joy.

"I didn't know you played," came a voice from beside him. It was Belle, still wrapped in the green shawl.

He let the pipe drop from his lips. "I haven't. Not in many years."

"What was it—what you were playing?" Belle asked, setting her hands in her lap.

He stared at the pipe which he turned in his hands. He answered, "An old folkdance."

"It's beautiful."

He nodded, "We danced to this song every spring when the trees began to flower."

"I wish I could have seen it," Belle said.

Rumplestiltskin leaned on his knees. He muttered, "I barely remember the steps."

And suddenly, he had her in his arms, guiding her movements in time with violins and pipes playing the music of two hundred years of spring. The notes which he heard in his head, began to ring audibly in the room as he realized how slim her waist felt with his arm around it and how perfectly her head rested against his cheek. He slowed his gait. They rocked gently back and forth in front of the fire, tracing little shapes on the carpet with their feet.

He dared to pull back and gaze upon her lovely features. Her face was serious, composed, focused. Staring at the reflection in her eyes, there was no carpet, no fireplace, no Dark Castle. There was only the two of them under a pale blue sky as the petals of a thousand trees fluttered to the ground on the breeze. He held her closer, tighter, wishing he could absorb all her goodness and light into his own dark soul.

Her eyes were closing. Her breath was shallow. He could feel the rapid beating of her heart, pressed so close against his. The smooth curve of her cheek brushed against his rough one. He closed his eyes and saw himself in another time, as another man—a man who could have all he desired.

He moved his head slightly, so slightly. How long did it take before his lips were by her ear? An hour or a day? He whispered in a voice that felt like it had traveled over a thousand leagues of green hills, "Belle, I—" he started, but stopped. He tried again, but the words refused to come.

She whispered softly to quiet him, "It's alright."

She placed her hand on his chest where his golden skin was not concealed by linen or leather. For the first time in ages, he was aware of the beating of his own heart. Fast and strong.

"I can feel it," she sighed.

She held him tighter. Her arms were the only bonds from which he hoped never to be released. She laid her head over the spot on his chest where her hand had just been. He could feel the gentle waves of her auburn hair. He wanted to hold that softness to him and never let go, never let it escape from his grasp.

With his left hand he tipped her face up to meet his gaze. His fingertips fell just so against the skin of her neck. Her pulse was light and fast, matching the rhythm of his. He gently stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. She did not smile, but looked at him with such hope and tenderness that his heart soared. As if pulling the moon from the sky, he moved her face slowly towards his. With his entire being he yearned to express all she meant to him. Hundreds of tiny muscles in his face, twitched with the anticipation they had known only once before. He felt the heat radiating from her lips like a magnetic force, drawing him in. An image flashed in his mind.

"I'm sorry—" he broke off. "I can't."

He had meant to sound cold and indifferent, but his words stuck in the back of his throat. He choked on his regret. He ran his hands down the length of her arms and briefly grasped her hands. He took one step back and then another until it was as if they were reaching for each other. He let go and watched her hands fall limply to her sides. The hope in her eyes dripped away like water poured out of a glass pitcher.

"I'm so sorry," he called over his shoulder as he fled the room.


	18. Doom Comes with the Dawn

All was quiet within the Dark Castle. The hour was late. Belle had long ago retreated into the solitude of her room. The silence of the house focused his energy. There was work to be done.

He had almost kissed the girl. And, he would have, had he not seen a vision of the future: Regina would come with the dawn. With that prophecy, he was reminded of the necessity of maintaining his power as the Dark One. He had hurried out of the great room and immediately rushed to his study. The Dark Curse would have to be completed tonight.

With bitterness he remembered the truth of his words to Belle. The power of the curse was too strong to be unmade in a single night. Belle's answer rang in his heart. He mumbled her words over and over again.

_The same magic that can break any curse. The best magic. _

If the curse could not be destroyed, then perhaps it could be altered. Set against the gloom of night, his potions shimmered with eerie phosphorescent colors. One potion, however, glowed brighter than all the others. The dreary stone walls were cast in shades of pink from the potion's soft purple luminescence.

He reached out and lifted the glass off the shelf. His eyes closed as he considered how many years he had worked to bottle True Love. Yet, Belle had brought it to him in just a few short months. Or was it sooner? Hadn't he felt it that first night in her father's castle? He had come to find someone whose usefulness was defined by their disposability. But, one look at that young girl, swathed in golden fabric, clutching a book to her breast, and he had found the only partner he wished to join him as he walked through all the worlds.

He uncapped the bottle and allowed a single drop to splash the parchment. The runes morphed, changing their form. He interpreted the new meaning. After 28 years, a savior would be summoned and the curse could be broken. One drop was not enough. If Belle was right, then whatever was in this little glass was a distillation, a mere shadow, of the actual force. He hoped it would be enough for his purpose.

He tipped the entire contents of the vial onto the paper. The purple liquid saturated the parchment and the ink ran in streaks down the paper. The runes were practically illegible. He could just barely make out the curse, now utterly transformed. The scroll adopted the purple glow of the potion, no longer a curse, but a blessing. When the need was great and the destruction of all imminent, a savior could enact the magic which would carry the citizens of the kingdom out of this world and safely into the next. He rolled the paper and sealed it with wax. The runes on the seal indicated it could only be broken by one who was pure of heart. It was a worthless blessing; no one was pure.

Suddenly, he saw further into the future than he had even dreamed was possible. A world stood on the brink of destruction. The scroll laid alone on a silver pedestal. Voices cried and wept aloud, "Is there no one who can break the seal?" Just before the vision ended, he saw a hand, brighter than any light he had ever seen, reach out and accept the scroll. A single tear slipped down his cheek.

He placed the Dark Curse, though it was no longer a fitting name, amongst his other scrolls. As it could not be opened, it was harmless and required no great protection. There was no magic which could destroy what he had wrought. With trembling hands, he returned the empty vial to its shelf.

Rumplestiltskin stared pensively out the window of his study, his eyes searching the mountain pass for any signs of movement. The doom he had dreaded was on the horizon. The scroll was sealed. Morning approached.

The number of his enemies was immeasurable. Of all his belongings, he had now only one treasure—Belle—and she a fragile one at that. His power as the Dark One was all that stood between her broken heart and broken body. If he gave up his power, he would face centuries of remembered hatred without a shield. If he continued as the Dark One, his happiness would be forever diminished by the shade of his curse. No matter what he chose, he would fail, as he always had, to protect the ones he loved.

He could not name the worse curse. Was it better to elect freedom at the cost of pain and death? Or was it preferable to abide in a living death? Whether Belle chose to reside in the shadow of his curse or the grief of his loss, hers would be a life of misery unless he forced her to go and remember him no more.

It was the only pain he could spare her. Soon, he would compel her to leave him to his fate. Today, however, she would remain hidden. She had been up late, no doubt, as he had been and would sleep long into the morning. He doubted she would even try her door until noon. If she did, she would discover it was locked and bolted from the outside.

Rumplestiltskin waited for Regina in the great room downstairs. Shortly after the clock struck seven he heard the doors swing open. Without removing his gaze from the mantle, he called out,

"Ah, Regina. Welcome. To what do I owe the honor?"

The doors slammed shut. "I think you know the answer to that."

He met her irate features with his own bemused ones. "I'm afraid I don't. You'll have to make yourself clear."

Regina wore a black dress with an impossibly high collar framing the line of her jaw with black petals. She breathed in sharply through her nose. The lines of frustration were grimly set.

"I want what you promised me. What we bargained for. Is it ready?" she asked pointedly.

"The Dark Curse?"

"Yes. It's been sealed, has it not? You've finished it. Do I need to repeat the terms of our agreement?"

"I remember."

With a flourish he summoned the scroll out of the study and produced it in mid-air. He tossed it to Regina with a sly smile. She produced a fashionable black hat and laid it ceremoniously on the table. Rumplestiltskin waved his hand, securing it within his study.

Regina carefully inspected the runes on the outer seal. With a measure of urgency she attempted to slip her finger underneath and break the wax. Her wicked smile quickly faded into outrage.

"The seal, Rumple." She tossed the scroll onto the table forcefully. "I can't open it."

"I know, dearie." He spread his hands wide. "No one can. At least, not yet."

Regina's dark eyes narrowed to mere slits. She ground her teeth and spoke through a clenched jaw, "Then, it's worthless."

"Only to you."

"I traded the only portal out of this world in exchange for the most powerful curse in the realm—the curse you've been working on for centuries!"

"And so you have it. What's the problem?"

"What good is a curse if it cannot be opened?"

"You really think I would turn over power like that to someone like you?" He placed a hand over his heart, "I don't think that's how I want to spend eternity nor do I wish to condemn others to that fate. So, I put in a little failsafe."

"Failsafe?"

"Just a splash of True Love," he sneered in his mocking tone.

"True love? Where did you get it?"

"Where do you think?!" he hissed.

She seethed and murmured so it was barely audible, "Snow White."

He giggled and allowed her to be blinded by her own bitterness.

"That wasn't part of our bargain!" she shouted.

He waved his finger in her direction and bared his teeth in a mischievous smile, "Now, now, now. You wouldn't be accusing me of reneging on our arrangement, would you? That's bad manners."

His heart was racing. Regina was incensed. Had she been able to read the curse, she would have burst into flames. Although that would have been an amusing sight, he didn't want to singe the tapestries.

"Bad manners?" she called out, enraged. "I'll show you bad manners, Rumplestiltskin!"

The great room burst into a dark purple mist. The wall just above his head exploded. Bits of plaster and dust peppered the carpets.

He looked about the room with glee. "Oh, I've waited many a year for this, dearie!"

With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a dark demon, one of many at his command. The creature, a shadowy beast with long tattered fur and gruesome teeth, lunged at Regina. It knocked her over, but burst into flames as Regina stabbed its smoke-riddled hide with a long staff she had hidden within the folds of her elaborate black gown.

With a shriek she sat up and fired a bolt of green lightning in his direction which flew from her fingertips at full force. It was a powerful curse and one of the first he had taught her while she was his apprentice. He dodged it easily, but the blast obliterated the tapestry hanging on the east wall.

He roared, "You can't expect to defeat me with my own magic!"

***Belle***

Upstairs, Belle had just fallen asleep when she was awakened by two raised voices. One she recognized as Rumplestiltskin's, but the other she could tell only that it belonged to a woman. The lady was a great fool to inflame the anger of Rumplestiltskin. Fearing for the woman's safety, Belle dressed quickly. Perhaps she could intervene and help settle tempers before things got out of hand. When she heard the first explosion, she raced to the door without putting on her shoes. She jerked the handle. The door refused to open. It was locked from the outside.

She cried out, "No!" repeatedly throwing her shoulder into the door. It refused to budge. Her key didn't work. She pounded on the door with her fists. She was hysterical as the sounds of shattering glass, explosions, and animalistic roars filled the house. Although, she realized that she had been locked in for her protection, she spoke directly to the door, hoping it would yield to her request one more time.

"Let me out! Please!"

***Regina***

Regina was out of breath. She muttered a foul curse under her breath. Why had she allowed fury to control her actions? All she had wanted was to leave with the Dark Curse. She had not come prepared for a battle with her former mentor. His dark army of the netherworld far exceeded the might of hers. As much as she hated to admit it, she did not have the power to defeat him.

Rumplestiltskin was just about to conjure a fire spirit, when Regina noticed the sofa. Her eyes flitted to the two chairs seated side-by-side at the polished table. She issued a deep guttural laugh, staying her mentor's hand.

"She's still here, isn't she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered, murder in his throat. His hand was still in position. At any moment he could complete the summons which would burn her to ash.

However, Regina relaxed. She had the upper hand. Waltzing over to the now blackened table, she traced her gloved fingertips over the back of the second chair at the table.

"Oh, so you're redecorating? How homey," she simpered. Regina quickly pocketed the curse. Perhaps she could find a use for it.

"I've had enough of this," he answered, preparing to cast his final blow.

"Where is she?" she spoke. She raised her eyebrows and smiled, "Locked up for safe keeping? How touching. But, by all means, Rumple, let's invite her down!" She clapped her hands and called out, "Belle, dear! Won't you join us?"

***Belle***

Belle found herself standing between Queen Regina and Rumplestiltskin. The great room looked as if it had been hit by several fireballs. The tapestries were smoking and hung in tatters, having been clawed by the various beasts and demons summoned to battle. With the exception of looking a little out of breath, both combatants appeared unscathed. Their magic afforded them a measure of protection. However, Belle feared she would not find so ready a shield.

"Break the seal, Rumple," Regina glowered.

"Sorry. It can't be done."

He picked up the parchment and tapped the delicate wax seal. The most powerful magic in the land was held together with a single layer of wax.

"It says right here, 'pure of heart.' That's just not me, dearie."

"Break it!" she screamed.

As if hurling a piece of fruit, Regina waved her hand. An invisible force slammed Belle against the wall, suspending her one foot above the floor.

"It cannot be broken, Regina. Put the girl down!" Rumplestiltskin shouted, taking a cautious step forward.

In a puff of inky smoke, Regina disappeared from her place before the fire and reappeared just in front of Belle. She placed her gloved hand over Belle's chest, never taking her eyes off of Rumplestiltskin. Belle's breath came rapidly and her chest heaved. Her arms and legs were pinned down by some invisible restraint. Her muscles began to spasm with the effort she made to free herself.

"I need a curse. A dark and powerful curse, Rumplestiltskin. If you cannot break the seal, then remake it!"

Rumplestiltskin laughed, high and impetuous. "It took me nearly 100 years to make the Dark Curse. Have you got 100 years, dearie?" He gestured to one of the blackened armchairs. "You're welcome to wait."

Regina's face darkened like a thunderstorm in the summer sky.

"I didn't think so," Rumplestiltskin sneered as he continued to make his way closer.

Suddenly, Belle's chest exploded in pain. Her eyes were wide and wild as she looked down and saw Regina's hand reach inside up to her forearm. Belle cried out in agony as she felt a vice seize her heart and slowly begin to squeeze.

"No, Belle!" cried Rumplestiltskin who began to run towards Regina.

The dark queen, seeing the anguish on his face, instantly released Belle. She dropped to the floor gasping for breath. Regina flung one last ominous purple haze towards Rumplestiltskin, who in his efforts to reach Belle, had neglected to shield himself. The blast struck him hard. He fell to the floor in a heap, screaming from the pain. Belle watched as Regina disappeared, but the sinister triumph of her laugh lingered long after the vapor had vanished.


	19. Lilac Oil

Regina's final assault struck him squarely in the chest. The searing toxins of the blast trailed through his every vein and artery, branching out from his heart. He stifled his screams only when he heard Belle's violent wheezing a few yards away. His body immobilized with pain, he was unable to move or lift his head to look at her. She was alive, but in what condition?

He called out, "Belle! Belle, are you alright?"

He heard her cough as she tried to catch her breath. From the furthest part of his peripheral vision, he saw her crawling, one hand clutched to her breast, to where he had fallen on the carpet.

"I'm here. I'm here," she repeated through gasps. Scattered locks of her chestnut hair hung around her face. Her cheeks were smudged from the smoke of a hundred evil spells and the ashes of the smoldering tapestries. She made her way slowly, struggling through the debris. "I'm coming," she coughed.

Within moments, Belle reached him on the floor. He winced with pain as she tenderly lifted his upper body and held him in her arms. Heavy sobs wracked her voice, "No!"

From his new position, he could see the gaping purple hole in his chest. It was the size of an orange and reeked of sulfur. Through the blood and gore, he could see the white of his ribcage. He recognized the curse.

Taking one of Belle's hands in his, he gritted his teeth and gasped, "Belle, listen closely. This is a pin oak blast. I need lilac oil."

Belle wept, but nodded. He was about to tell her where to find the small silver cask in his study, when a fresh wave of pain coursed through his body causing him to cry out. More tears began to flow from her sapphire eyes, streaming down her cheeks in little rivulets. A few ran over her lips before dropping into the gruesome wreck of his flesh. He sighed slowly as his discomfort evaporated. A strange sort of tingling replaced the agonizing, burning ache.

Although Belle's cheeks remained streaked with tears, she grew strangely quiet. Rumplestiltskin winced again and lifted his head to reexamine the injury. It was smaller and closing up. Within moments, he felt well enough to sit up on his own. He leaned against a pillar. Reaching a hand up to Belle's cheek, he caught one of her tears on his finger. He dropped it neatly into a small pewter flask he removed from his pocket. He resolved to take her tear up to his study later. He would discover the secret Belle was not even aware she was hiding.

"Her hand was on my heart," Belle wept. "Her fingernails were digging in. She was going to kill me."

He nodded stiffly.

Belle began to shake. "Why didn't she?"

Rumplestiltskin gathered her up in his arms and held her close. Her head rested on the new skin which covered the area just over his heart. Unlike the surrounding tissue, which was golden with a slight greenish tint, this flesh was pale and white. His hands trailed up and down her arms, as if she were shivering from an autumn chill and not from facing the full blast of malevolent enmity.

He sighed, gathering the courage to answer her question. "Oh, my dear, dear Belle. She spared your life because of the look in my eye. She believes you can break the curse—will break the curse. And, on that day, she will kill us both."

Belle sat up quickly, wild eyed. "Why not kill us now? She could have."

He shook his head, "No, not both of us. Yes, she could have killed you, and that nearly would have ended me." His voice grew hard, "But, then I would come at her with such vengeance, no Dark Curse could keep her safe. I would follow from world to world, extinguishing all life, destroying her again and again until either my wrath or long life was extinguished. Regina is no fool. She will bide her time, until the curse is broken, my powers gone, and I am weak. Then she will strike with all the fury her black heart can muster."

"You don't know that."

"I do," he nodded his head decidedly.

"You can't. And, you mustn't live your life in fear for what may never happen."

"It would happen. You were wrong, Belle, about love. It costs everything."

"Well, if it does, it's only because it's _worth_ everything. And we could have it!"

"For how long? A few moments? Because that's how long we would have once Regina knew the curse was broken."

"We could beat her—together. Hers isn't the strongest magic in the world. And lots of people defeat sorcerers and witches and demons without magic at all. We could fight. Stand together."

He stroked her face softly. "We would die together. Belle, you are right, Regina's power isn't the strongest magic, but it isn't the only magic either. The list of my enemies is long and varied. Without my power, I could never protect you."

"Still afraid?"

He swallowed hard as he answered as honestly as possible, "The name of Rumplestiltskin has always meant 'coward.' There are some things about a man that do not change. The power of the Dark One is all that protects my life and, now, yours."

She grabbed the hand he held against her cheek and laid her own on top of it. "Hear me now. There is a force far more powerful than any magic—good or evil: love. It will protect us. You call yourself coward, but you have more courage than you know. Only a brave man can admit to the darkest parts of his soul. And only the bravest of men would willingly live in the shadow of a curse to protect the ones he loves. But, if it takes my whole life, I will prove to you the power of love."

"If you stay with me," he murmured. "Then yours will be only a half-life."

"I will never abandon you." Her crystalline blue eyes pierced his with determination, but fresh tears were edging in the corners. "But, please, don't pretend you don't want me by your side."

"How can I ask you to carry that burden?"

"It is no burden." She closed her eyes and slightly turned her face towards his hand which was still on her cheek as if to kiss his palm. However, she caught herself and stared into his eyes instead. "I love you," she whispered with conviction.

"You would stand with me—monster that I am—even if it cost your life?"

"Yes," she vowed.

"I don't mean your life in dying; I mean your life in living. You would sacrifice that?

"Yes."

"You would marry a monster?" Rumplestiltskin wondered who had spoken those words, for surely he had never meant to utter them aloud. Belle's answer came swiftly, releasing him from anxiety.

"I could never marry a monster, but I will marry you."

Belle's embrace pushed every dark thought out of mind. Her love was light in his heart, igniting a fire of his own. Together, their flames burned bright, sending sensations of warmth through body and soul. Enclosed in each other's arms, he was at peace and at home in a way he had never imagined possible. Belle sat up and solemnly touched her index finger first to his lips and then to hers, acknowledging the boundary which could not be crossed until the appointed day.

She prophesied, "And in time, the name of Rumplestiltskin will not mean coward or devil. It will mean help and hope. You will find that through love you have bargained for friendship. One by one, your enemies will drop away." She spoke no more, but laid her head once again upon his chest, draping her soft white arm over his body.

Rumplestiltskin had found true love, bottled it, and could place it in his pocket. If that was not enough, here it was in the flesh resting its pretty head on his chest, falling asleep in his arms. Belle would wander the worlds with him as his wife, searching for a way to find Bae. He would remain the Dark One, but he would have his bride and one day his son as well.

He should have been elated. And yet, there were chains on his heart. He had seen the look on Belle's face as she reluctantly turned her lips away from his hand on her cheek. She had wanted that kiss desperately, as had he, but it was a line they could not cross. At the pinnacle of their love they had struck a ceiling and could rise no further. The curse of the Dark One touched the ecstasy of his heart, rotting it with a single truth: A love allowed to stagnate will die.


	20. Symbol and Ceremony

Rumplestiltskin and Belle stood in the great room taking stock of the damage. Several of the tapestries were beyond repair, as were much of the furniture and the carpets. As they marveled at the smoky ruins, Belle slipped an arm around Rumplestiltskin's waist.

"With a good cleaning and a little polish, I think the table could be saved," Belle said.

Rumplestiltskin nodded. He looked at her warmly as he tentatively wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She responded to his touch by swiveling around into a full embrace. He breathed in the sweet floral scent of her hair which she had combed with her fingers and tied back with a piece of ribbon. Even now he felt the press of the wall.

The room was set to rights easily with a wave of his hand. All the damaged furnishings were removed and replaced with new ones from his endless collection. The debris and dirt vanished. The walls were patched and layered with a fresh coat of paint. Later, over a light meal of bread, fruit, and cheese, they spoke quietly about the future.

They agreed the marriage should be small, private, and held as soon as possible. They would travel to Odenhad in the morning and make the arrangements with the cleric. After the ceremony, they would return to the Dark Castle. Rumplestiltskin knew word would spread quickly about their marriage. He did not tell Belle about Jefferson's hat. There would be time for all of that.

There was much that he would have to make time for after the wedding. He had never told her about Milah's death. The list of his transgressions stretched on for ages. He told himself that she did not want to know these things and that she did not need to know his sordid history. But, was it fair to bind the girl to himself in ignorance? Guilt plagued him. One day, she would discover the whole truth: she loved a monster incapable of change. He could not amend the past, and he could not alter who he was. Their love could not exist as it did forever. And she would leave. Unless…

After Belle had retired to her room, he flew up the stairs to his study. He summoned a handful of gold threads from his treasury and set them out on his desk beside the two remaining hairs he had plucked from Belle's head. With a jerk, he added two hairs of his own to the pile. He passed his hands over the thin strands. The hair took on a shade of silver. Once enchanted, the filaments moved, weaving hundreds of interlacing knots. The ends attached and welded themselves together, tucking into the rest of the design so that not even Rumplestiltskin could unravel the pattern.

In his hand he now held two rings, identical save for their difference in size. He inspected the craftsmanship. This was a contract unlike any other he had ever drafted. It was forged not of ink or parchment but of gold and True Love. It was eternally binding. Once Belle slipped this little golden ring on her finger, she would be joined to him forever. She would be unable to remove the ring from her finger or herself from his presence. The same would be true for him for better or worse—worse being the more likely of the two.

The next morning, Belle blushed when she stepped into the great room. The bloom of color on her cheek matched the hue of her dress which loosely skimmed the curves of her body. Her hair hung free and flowing about her shoulders. She was radiant. As she passed by his seat, he caught her hand.

"Belle, I have something for you."

He held open his hand revealing the two rings. Belle picked them up to examine the fine details in the morning light.

She marveled, "You made these? They're beautiful." She handed the larger one back to him.

"Don't—" he started to caution her, but before he could get the words out, she slipped the smaller ring onto her delicate finger. She was not meant to wear it until the ceremony. He had not planned to tell her about the enchantment unless she expressed an interest in leaving him.

Belle must have noticed his distress because she furrowed her brow and said, "I don't understand. Is it bad luck to try on a wedding ring? You should know, I don't believe in luck."

With a broad grin she deposited herself into his lap and placed her arms on his shoulders. She embraced him quickly, lingering a few moments to press her cheek against his. It was long enough to awaken a desire which was only growing more urgent by the minute.

Distracted and unnerved, he suddenly felt awkward. He could not decide whether he should place his hands on the small of her back or leave them settled on the armrest of the chair. He stammered quietly, "Once you've slipped it on your finger, you can never be free of me." How did she always manage to elicit such frankness from his lips without a single word?

She ran her fingers through his hair. "Of course, that's what wedding rings are for." She removed her hands from either side of his head, removing the ring without difficulty. She held it up between her thumb and index finger with a smile.

"I don't understand," he said in amazement. None of his spells or enchantments had ever been so easily broken. "The ring—it's enchanted. You shouldn't be able to take it off."

Belle handed the ring back to him, choosing not to be angry at the manifestation of his insecurity. "You tried to enchant me with this? I told you before, Rumplestiltskin. Magical objects are mere shades of true magic. You don't need a shadow to bind me to you." She placed his hand over her heart then laid her hand over his, "My heart is yours. We are bound already. That ring is a symbol of the love in my heart—nothing more."

She rose to go and bring in the tray for breakfast. She called over her shoulder, "But, it is very pretty."

He flipped the rings over in his hand. He mumbled to himself, "Should have been a jeweler."

***Father Andrew***

"A wedding?" the old priest questioned as he looked from one to the other. On the left was a shining beauty with clear eyes the exact shade of an ocean wave. On the right sat the grim, gilded imp who had so recently saved the entire village from certain death. "Tomorrow?"

"If you can manage it," the young lady beamed.

"It's to be a small affair, very small," added the Dark One. "Take whatever gold you feel is an adequate compensation for the inconvenience." The creature known as Rumplestiltskin squirmed in his seat, wearing his desperation like an ill-fitted vest.

The priest cleaned his spectacles and cleared his throat. Gold was not the issue. Father Andrew was not entirely certain he should perform the ceremony. Could a demon, even a helpful one, wed a maid? The glare in Rumplestiltskin's eye told Andrew he could and should if he valued his life as a man of the cloth instead of a frog in the pond.

"Of course. At midday, you said?"

"Yes," they answered in unison.

The priest was glad the young lady had accompanied Rumplestiltskin into the church. Had she not, he would have doubted her willingness, her soundness of mind, and even her very existence. But, here she sat, looking very much like every other bride-to-be on the day before her wedding. However Rumplestiltskin had managed to win her heart, he would never know.

After discussing the business of matrimony, the couple promised to return the following day. As they stepped out of his drawing room, the priest called, "One more thing: You'll need witnesses."

They glanced at each other nervously. The maid shook her head. Rumplestiltskin answered, "We have none."

The priest held up a hand and offered, "I'll take care of it."

***Rumplestiltskin***

Rumplestiltskin paced nervously in the wings of the altar. He pulled at the collar of his tunic which chaffed his neck. Tradition insisted that both the bride and the groom be clothed in white linen. It was an unfortunate color and one he had unequivocally avoided since his descent into darkness. With a flick of his hand, he let the stitching out a bit. He took a deep breath, tossed his head, and said, "Much better."

Father Andrew took his place at the altar. Book in hand, he gave a little wave to the apses on either side. It was their signal to approach. Rumplestiltskin's knees nearly buckled at the sight of Belle in her bridal gown. It was pure white with sheer flowing sleeves. A golden sash settled on the curve of her hips and trailed off down the front of her skirt, dividing her body in perfect, equal halves. She had stepped out of another century, one that had been happier for him.

The church was empty save for the three of them. The priest checked a small pocket watch which hung from the end of a ribbon serving as a bookmark. He pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and said, "We'll wait just a moment or two for the witnesses to arrive."

Belle rocked back and forth on her heels making a soft clicking sound on the stone altar. The little white flowers woven into her hair bobbed gently with the motion. She glanced up at Rumplestiltskin, smiled demurely, and dropped her eyes again.

The church doors opened. A man entered carrying a violin. He was dressed fashionably but modestly. Rumplestiltskin thought him familiar but could not place him. The man approached the altar, gave a slight bow to both bride and groom, and took a seat in a chair provided at the front of the church. He struck up an elegant melody. The doors opened again, and a small child, a little girl, skipped in and tossed flower petals on the aisle. She was followed by another girl who handed Belle a bouquet of white roses. Another child, a little boy, offered Rumplestiltskin a single white rose to fix to his tunic. Anna waved hello as she stepped in and placed a small bunch of flowers on the edge of the front pew. John followed her, lighting several candles at the front of the church.

More and more people processed into the sanctuary, each one carrying a single decoration. The church transformed before their very eyes. Soon, it was illuminated with dozens of candles, ribbons, garlands of ivy, and flowers. Men filed in carrying chairs and were hurried off to an adjoining alcove where a table had been set up. A series of cakes and other dishes were laid on the table, decorated in similar fashion as the rest of the church. The people continued to file in, filling every seat, standing in the back when there was no more room.

Rumplestiltskin felt a hand take his. He looked up and saw that Belle's eyes had filled with tears. "Love never stands alone," she whispered loud enough for his ears only.

The last person who crossed the threshold of the chapel was Lord Desmond. He was greatly changed since their last meeting. His eyes were no longer swathed in heavy dark circles. His face was fuller, and his complexion was robust. His immaculate clothes bespoke of his wealth. The black armband which encircled his biceps indicated the sorrow of the loss which he shared with his people. However, he smiled as he walked up the aisle.

"We can work magic too," Desmond laughed. He winked at Belle and nodded at Father Andrew who began the service.

"Today we gather as a fellowship of friends to witness the union of these two who stand before us."

A lump formed in Rumplestiltskin's throat. Friends. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. He had healed their bodies in a single afternoon, but what they offered would last for a lifetime. Once again, his was the greater profit. He had won the friendship and respect of an entire village.

The priest continued, "If anyone has any reason to declare why these two should not be joined in the sacred bonds of matrimony, speak now." The brief pause stretched into decades.

Before all of Odenhad they pledged their vows of eternal faithfulness, devotion, and love. Belle's voice was clear and sure. His sounded small compared to hers; however, he spoke the words with more conviction than he had felt in decades.

Father Andrew methodically proceeded through the ceremony. "Let us continue the service with the exchange of rings." He held the two golden bands up in the air and continued, "These seamless circles, without beginning or end, serve as a symbol of the love we feel which binds us to one another."

Belle smirked. She mouthed, "Symbol."

His hand shook just a little as he slid the ring onto her finger. Her hand was as steady as her gaze as she gently pushed the band onto his. The feel of a wedding ring was not unfamiliar. It awakened an emotion with which he was well-acquainted: fear. As the priest spoke, Rumplestiltskin fiddled furtively with the ring. It held fast.

"Marriage is the most blessed of contracts."

_And binding_, thought Rumplestiltskin as he pulled against the ring. Although it had slipped off Belle's finger as easily as if it had been dipped in butter, he could not budge it. Belle looked at him with concern in her eyes. He smiled apologetically.

"In marriage there is no fear, only faith, hope, and love. The greatest of these is love, which provides a barrier against all hate, covers any evil, and provides a shelter from all of life's storms. In this sacred trust, we find the full and free expression of the affection we feel for one another."

Rumplestiltskin was close to panic. What had he done? They were bound together by symbol and ceremony. How could he ever hope to make Belle happy when he could not provide the full and free expression of his love? He would forever be forced to hold her at a distance. The bloom of her love would fade and wither. She had cursed herself by marrying him.

"Now, by the power invested in me by the gods, the church, and this community, I pronounce you husband and wife. I invite you to enjoy your new freedom and kiss your bride."

Belle's mouth fell open, and she glanced first at the priest and then at Rumplestiltskin. She held up her hand as if to apologize. In their urgency to schedule the ceremony, they had forgotten to mention the necessary alteration to tradition. Now, in front of all these people, Rumplestiltskin would be forced to humiliate his bride by denying her his affection. But, when he looked once more into her eyes, full of love without condemnation, he struck his final bargain as the Dark One, exchanging a lifetime of shadow for a lifetime of happiness—however long that life might last.

His lips brushed against hers for the first time since that fateful night in the early spring. With an eagerness that pulled from the center of his being, he reached for Belle and pressed her close against him. In her lips there was a softness he wished to sink into and rest forever. The longing of three hundred years of loneliness and blackness drove them together in such passion, he was only vaguely aware of the cheer from the congregation. He stopped only to catch his breath, but it would not come. Beneath his feet, the floor was shaky and unsteady.

He clung to Belle, forehead leaning against forehead, and whispered, "I'm spinning."

"So am I," she whispered, her lips brushing against his cheek.

"Don't let me go," he pleaded, afraid he would fall.

"Never," she vowed as he leaned into her all the more. The woozy feeling returned, stronger than that first evening by the great wheel. Like the draining of a wound, he felt all the blackness leaching from his body. It was painful, dizzying, and disorienting. He shook his head, but the feeling did not subside. He was emptying out, becoming hollow. His lips found hers again, and they stood before the crowd which had gone deathly silent.

A loud, sardonic laugh came from the back of the church. The townspeople parted way to make room for Queen Regina, dressed for the occasion. Belle and Rumplestiltskin glanced in her direction as she loped down the aisle, flinging her elaborate black sequined skirts to the sides with dramatic flare.

Rumplestiltskin quickly looked down at his hands. The nails were smooth and pink. He pushed back the sleeve of his tunic. The skin on his arms matched the pale flesh on his hands. As quickly as the hollowness came, it began to ebb away. The emptiness slowly filled with a light which warmed from within. He looked at Belle who confirmed the change with the slightest nod of her head. Even now she was smiling at him, her hands clasping his. She was luminous.

"Belle, I'm so sorry. The dark power is gone." Belle did not let release him. Her eyes were full of joyful determination. She turned to stand beside him, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders, and share in his fate.

Regina smirked, "Well, well, well, the Dark One takes a bride. Let me be the first to congratulate the happy couple. But, wait, it appears you're no longer the Dark One. You're Rumplestiltskin, the coward." Regina shot a sardonic look at Belle, adding, "Just an ordinary man!" She fired one mighty crimson blast with a force that extinguished the candles at the altar. It was aimed directly at Rumplestiltskin.

The congregation gasped as a brilliant white light filled the church, temporarily blinding those who did not shield their eyes. Within this radiance all other colors were contained. The light was accompanied by a noise not unlike the sound of a sword being pulled from its scabbard, but longer like the note of a song. A second, dimmer, light flickered briefly and then was gone.

As the brightness slowly faded, vision returned to the congregation. The people of Odenhad saw Belle and Rumplestiltskin standing, chests heaving in front of the altar. Regina had vanished. Belle stood with an arm protectively shielding her husband whose posture was far more aggressive. With one arm wrapped around Belle's waist and the other extended, he looked as if he were headed to battle. The effect was a strangely defiant protective embrace. A two-person army. The congregation cheered again.

"What's happened?" Rumplestiltskin asked.

"I don't know," she stammered.

"A mirror!" Rumplestiltskin shouted. "Quick!" Several pairs of footsteps echoed off the stone floor of the cathedral.

"But, the queen?" Belle asked hesitatingly.

Rumplestiltskin could not take his eyes off of Belle. He answered, "I don't think we have to worry about her anymore."

As they waited, Belle glanced down at her dress, probably to see if it was singed. She caught a glimpse of something pale like moonlight, but soft in texture. She picked it up and rolled it between her fingers. "My hair!" she called out. It was the first time he had ever heard panic in her throat.

Rumplestiltskin cupped her face in his hands, "It's beautiful. You're beautiful." He kissed her lips once more.

She could not see it, but she was transfigured. Her hair was not the only aspect of her being which had been altered. Her eyes, once the color of a summer sky, were paler now, the color of ice melting in the first thaw of spring. Her skin was fairer and all about her was a faint shimmering aura. The stunning dress was even more becoming now, drawing attention to her new grace rather than to the fabric itself. Someone handed him a mirror, which he pushed into Belle's hands.

She mumbled, "The White Lady."

She glanced up at Rumplestiltskin with her new eyes and held up the mirror in kind. Hers was not the only metamorphosis. He expected to peer into the face of the shepherd he had abandoned on that cursed night so long ago. While his skin was devoid of the gilded tint which had at times appeared as scales, he didn't resemble the man from his past either. Time had slipped away from his features, leaving him neither old nor young. His complexion glowed with the warmth of a hundred summers in open fields. His eyes, which had once been a dark brown, were lighter now like amber. His hair was the color of freshly cut straw. He smiled, and his teeth were familiarly positioned, but free of stain and decay. The faint light which illuminated his features glowed within him as well.

"What's happened?" he asked in wonder. A force of habit, he waved his hand in the direction of the unlit candles. They ignited instantly. The new light, which had slowly begun to fill his soul, overflowed.

A tinkling voice just above his head caught his attention, "You have become what you were always meant to be, Rumplestiltskin."

It was Rheul Gorm, the Blue Fairy. He shuddered slightly at the sight of her blue wings shimmering in the candlelight. When had she arrived and how had she known where he was? How very like a fairy. He felt a mild sense of irritation at her presence. Some feelings did not die as quickly as a curse.

"What am I—" his eyes darted toward Belle who was so like him, "What are we?"

The Blue Fairy shook her head, "I do not know. I have never seen magic like this. You are new creations, forged in the bonds of love."

"Old magic," Belle whispered excitedly. She pressed his hand, and he felt the power within him grow stronger.

He kissed her cheek and whispered back, "The best magic." To the Blue Fairy, he said, "There are so many questions."

"None of which, I'm afraid, I can answer," answered the Blue Fairy, who intentionally fluttered just out of reach.

Belle pressed his hand, "We'll find the answers together."

"Yes," he murmured. Testing the limits of his second sight, he was almost overpowered by the force of his vision. He might have stumbled had Belle not held tightly to his arm. He saw the two of them wandering the worlds together. Helping, saving, building, advising, and, always, loving. He saw their great power, greater than any he had ever encountered. They needed no potions, spells, or talismans. There was no need to bottle True Love. It flowed freely between them, passing from heart to heart, the source of their power. With love, he saw they would overcome all obstacles. With love, all things were possible.

Belle, who appeared to have seen the same vision, wondered out loud, "Do you think we could find Baelfire?"

"I don't know," answered Rumplestiltskin. He considered the way Belle had loved him and what it had accomplished. He added, "Love always hopes."

She answered, "Love never fails."

* * *

**A/N: **

**_First, I want to say thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to read _True Magic._ I hope you enjoyed it! I would love to know what you think of my story. All your comments are welcome, so feel free to leave a review below. For those who have written reviews, please know how much it meant to me. I treasure each one. _**

**_Great big Oncer Hugs to all who voted and helped _True Magic_ win "Best Multi-Chapter Fanfiction" in the 2013 Once Upon a Fan Awards. Your love & support for this story is humbling. The other nominees are truly gifted writers, and if you haven't read _Hooked, _you're really missing out on a fantastic adventure and some stirring Rumbelle_ _feels!_**

**_Finally, I have to thank the creative team behind ABC's hit show "Once Upon a Time." Without your efforts, imagination, and talent, this story would not exist. Thank you for letting me borrow your world and your characters. _**

**_If you enjoyed this story, please look at my other OUAT fanfiction, also available on this site. Feel free to contact me on Twitter ( BrookeSummerlin). I love talking about the show with other Oncers. _**

**_Love and Blessings, _**

**_Brooke Summerlin, A Petal on the Rose_**


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